One word… come on, Thorsen— just one word…
If I am to continue to commit to this artist life, answer to my gift, I must at least scratch out one word a day… just one word.
Maybe it is this long winter, or old age, or plain old fatigue from getting up at 5 every day, or maybe it is the rubber band pulling back, preparing for something big…
Maybe it’s not the season of output, but the season of preparing.
But alas my journals have been neglected except for some tired one word chicken scratches. But I shan’t despair. Even if I don’t do any journaling every day, I must at least intend to write—
If I carry the book with me, at least I can be guilty of intent. Mens Rea.
No matter where the journal is— on the table—
On the tub edge—
Or in the shelf in these somewhere— at least the intent is there.
Input –> process –> output –> rest –> intention –> input –> process –> output –> rest –> intention…