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I told her I write to fill a pocket notebook as fast as I can. 70 pages—front and back—it’s like a race. Fill 140 pages with words, thoughts, stray observations, and ideas in two weeks, a week, a few days—seek a comfortable pace.
I told her I’m working hard, meditating, focusing on this as my only motivation for writing: fill the notebooks—ready, set, write.
It gets the work done, I told her, and it’s much less paralyzing than always thinking: I have to write something great now.
She just shrugged.
She used to write several articles a week for a student newspaper, and post daily on her blog. She doesn’t even write for herself anymore, not even a journal. She retreated into designing, coding—literally another language—years ago. Something she wrote about her rape upset her family, there were angry phone calls, and writer’s block set in. The worst case I’ve ever seen.
“I’m not a writer.” She told me. “You are.”
I’ve been trying to break her out of this for a very long. So far, no luck. Maybe reading this will help her write. I hope. I miss reading her.