I don't write with pen and paper any more although the boxes of files and notebooks and drawing pads and binders that remain in my possession despite the nomadic current that has defined my lifestyle for several years attests to a previous practice.
I write at the computer now. That is, when I write.
It's not for lack of ideas; although I observe that the ideas have very short tails: there's not much expansion or elaboration on the notions that arrive like bright bursts of light onto my Attention screen. I am genuinely engaged when the idea arrives but, like a restless child, I drop it and look about anxiously for something else, for the next shiny thing.
I've also discovered that my creative process is still strongly tied to smoking. Even when I am sufficiently motivated to at least open the Bookmark for SITC, I often decide to step outside for a smoke before I start (the current site of sojourn is a smoke-free environment). It is while standing on either of two enchanting porch spaces here, with cigarette in hand, that the previously described "bursts of light" occur.
When I return to the keyboard, more often than not, I am lured into extended explorations on FB or (blush) dalliances with Spider Solitaire, FreeCell and Minesweeper.
Today, this time, obviously, something different happened because here I am.
What happened this time?
Psychological Baggage. Just detaching from all psychological baggage is one way to characterize the process that has resulted in my sitting here now, fingers to keyboard. Writing.
The baggage is still here. I can pick it up and lay it down and pick it up and lay it down....
I know it's there. I know it's here. It's neither "good" nor "bad" -- though I'm aware my mind wants to (and does) pass judgment.
And today, when I released attachment to my thoughts about my psychological baggage, another space opened up
and I found myself here. Talking to you and to myself.