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The Implicit

This is how it is. Write. Search. Latch onto anything: faces at bus stops, textbook questions, sun on fog. Learn to kill your darlings. Learn to quilt from scrap.

There’s no one who can make you do this but yourself, and if it’s ever anyone else you’ll stop. Don’t stop. Press the grindstone with the hand behind your head. There’s an art to this: find it.

Sieve, filter, grasp. You have a thousand ideas every day–try to remember three. Hang on. Don’t stop. If you stop, nothing will ever change again.

This is how it is. Write. Search. Write again.

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