It’s been a while since my writing flowed. That’s the best part of writing though—the flow. Every time I sit down to write it’s what I hope for—the deluge, the torrent—and to be carried away in my efforts. I long to float on my words like they’re benevolent currents.
In the flow, my internal editor and critic are swept away. Their voices are drowned out by the rush of words spilling from my fingers and saturating the page. Doubt is diluted by the downpour. There is no time to stop and question or criticize.
In the flow, I forget myself and get out of my own way. I fall out of concern for time. Hours pass like minutes. I blink and I’ve written all day. In the flow, my thoughts keep pace with (or outrun) my ability to record them. I don’t want to stop. I can’t imagine how I would. My sole concern is no concern—just words.
In the flow, my only reality is what I am writing. I am fully absorbed by words. I abide in them. And although I am living within the margins of a page, the possibilities feel endless. I am energized and excited. I am intrigued and inspired. With my mental barriers surmounted, each word begets another and another until a new creation is completed.
However, as with anything, the flow has its opposite. It is the writer’s block, the drought, the abyss, the emptiness. It is where words fall apart before they cohere. And sentences dissipate before they express an idea. It’s when writing is more like mining than a miracle. Putting a single sentence together feels like building with parched sand. It is as laborious as being in the flow is glorious. It feels like a job for Sisyphus. But if I wait it out for however long it lasts, I will find myself enjoying the flow again.