Take space to breathe.
We may say that writing and breathing are connected. We may say this, though the danger is that saying it causes us to fall into some pretension. It’s not so simple to say that we can always write without thinking about it, like breathing, though it is simple to do. I find it’s often the space that proves to be the difficult thing.
Build yourself up, psyche yourself up, get yourself ready to write — all of these — or accept that you should always be ready? It’s not so binary a system. We live in days of flux, and days flux in and out of us. We may live in words, and words in us, yet this is different to stopping, seeing, getting them down.
It is, right now and for this writer, an arrangement of knowing what flows around, and in, and in between, and choosing the moment carefully to pin it all down. Choose unwisely and there’s nothing that can be said, or written. The danger when writing about writing is that there is that possible fall into pretension.
So, building up and knowing that it’s all out there anyway are two processes that start to overlap. Timing is everything when everything overwhelms. Open the door and look outside. Look up in the world. Make that conscious effort to down the tools of whatever the necessary unnecessary of the flow of time is, and break time. Open the door, look up in the world.
Breathe, because making space to do this creates space to do it more. Write in the head because writing in the head creates space to do this more. Time and space, space and time, inter-relate and merge. It’s no longer a case of how one is more important than the other. It’s no longer about the focus and break-down of hierarchies.
Time and space and space and time and breathing and writing and writing and breathing and building up and knowing the flow and knowing the flow and building up all merge. It’s simple enough to write without superfluous thought: we just must drop into the now of it all.