writing – Page 9 – Patrick Rhone

30 Days In

As of this writing, I’m 30 days in on my plan to publish here daily. It may not seem like much to anyone else but I’m proud of myself for keeping up with it no matter what. Trust me, there were plenty of obstacles in my way and convenient excuses I could have fallen back on to miss a day or two.

In this past month both Bethany (wife) and Beatrix (daughter) have been sick with pretty nasty virus/bugs. Beatrix has decided in the last few weeks that 5am is a perfectly good time to wake up Daddy and keep him up. This means my light-sleeping wife is also awakened too. My wife and I have been overwhelmed with starting a new business together and transitioning to it on top of our normal workloads… I could go on and on.

The bottom line is that is a minor miracle that I was able to publish most days. Some of those I had to fall back on things I had written long before. Many days, the fact that I write ahead is the only thing that made it possible. But, regardless, I have not yet missed a day. Which, for me, is something to celebrate.

Thank you to all of those who have showed up to read daily, which I understand is no easy task some days. If a writer is publishing daily they are, to some extent, asking you to make a choice to spend a few minutes reading versus a million other potentially more important ways that time can be spent. All I can do is to try my best to respect that and make the choice worth it.

Thank you to all who have seen fit to offer a free will donation to support the work. Thanks to those who have shared my writing with others. Thanks to those who have emailed or messaged me to offer advice, correction, or kind words. All of this helps so much.

In closing, here are just a few of the posts from the last months that I think stand out. Please check them out if you missed them:

Onward and upward!

The Blank Page

I have to fill it. It won’t get filled on its own. It’s my job to do the work and most days I’m just not sure I have it in me. I’m sure today is one of these days. These many days. This, despite the fact that my head is swimming with ideas. Dozens at any given moment.

My fear is perfectly represented here. The fear of the unknown. The fear of failure. Because I can’t even see the finished product of what this thing will be once filled with words and ideas. The hardest part of writing, of anything really, is starting. I just don’t know where to start. Then, even if I manage to start, will I know what finished looks like?

Sometimes, rarely, the page pops into my head. Completed. Finished. Before it is even started. I approach the blankness and type it and ship it and people love it and they let me know and I never reveal my secrets. The secret that it took me so little time or real effort. The secret that it almost never, ever, ever, works that way. That, most days, I spend hours completely paralyzed in front of the grave in which I’m sure my talent is destined to proceed me, long before it is time for my body and mind to follow.

I have to force myself to sit here and stare at it. To look into my fear and let it mock me with the possibility that it will beat me. That I won’t be able to start and it will remain perfectly fine. In its natural state. Blank. Therefore, I too will remain in my natural state. Afraid.

But, I know somewhere deep and primal, it is a matter of time and a test of will. That I can overcome my fear. That I have plenty to fill that empty space with. That it does not require some rare moment of clarity or enlightenment. That all it requires is the courage to write one word. Then, follow it with another. Pretty soon you have a sentence. Then, a paragraph. Then, soon enough, ideas will form. Those could turn into a letter. A post. An essay. Or, eventually, a book.

It starts right here. For me. For everyone. Every day. A hole we are required to face our fears to fill.

An empty space on the floor by my bed waiting to be filled with my first step. An empty pot waiting to be filled with my coffee. A spouse waiting to be filled with my devotion. A waking child waiting to be filled with my love. A page…

This was originally written for my now discontinued subscription newsletter. I’ve made the decision to take some of my favorites from there and put them here.

Warming Up

My fingers are really cold today. I can’t seem to get them to feel warm. I’ve blown on them, clasping one hand over the other and cupping my mouth as I exhaled, hoping the warmth of my breath would help. I’ve tried sitting on them, hoping to find warmth for them somewhere between my thighs and the couch. I’ve tried rubbing my hands together, hoping the friction would produce enough heat. Nothing has worked so far.

This is a problem. Writers largely work with their hands. They need to be warmed up.

Before this, I had sat down to work on my morning pages. They too, are an act of warming up the writer. Of getting the fingers moving and the creative juices flowing so that an artist is warmed up to the craft that lay before them.

How does one warm up when they can seem to get warm? My fingers are too cold to write.

The morning pages are essential for me. Pioneered by Julia Cameron in her book, The Artist Way, the idea is to fill up three standard pages, hand written, long hand, with whatever thoughts come to mind. There is not supposed to be narrative or meaning or even the idea of being any good. In fact, it should barely be considered writing, really. Just stream of conscious thought poured out on the page done first thing in the morning. Morning pages are supposed to clear the mind and open the pathways to the deeper reaches of one’s mind.

And now my hands are grasping a hot cup of coffee. Still hoping for warmth.

Most often, I warm up to write one thing by writing another thing. An email is an excellent way to warm up to writing a blog post. A journal entry is a pretty good way to warm up to write a chapter of a book. A task list. A recipe. Transcribing the side of a cereal box. If you are feeling stuck, writing anything is always a good way to get unstuck.

And, now, I have written about warming up. My fingers are a bit warmer. As if thinking about it and writing about it were the only source of heat in the world. In this moment, that seems as true as any truth.

I can write my pages now.

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