on standing

Taking control of the writing process

The heating system clicks on with that particular sound of metal expanding against metal, like the house is slowly stretching after a night of stillness, while outside the garbage truck makes its rounds three streets over —close enough that you can hear its hydraulic whine of but far enough away that it could be thunder, and the maple tree in the neighbor's yard catches the early sun through its leaves in a way that creates this irregular strobe across your window, shadows and light shifting every time the wind moves the branches, turning the morning into something that feels almost like a heartbeat made visible, the kind of rhythm you don't notice until you've been sitting in the same chair for long enough that your body starts to sink.

There is no formula as to when writers write, but most — as I know — would find this particular stillness comforting. Something about this particular quiet makes words feel possible — not the forced kind, but the ones that show up unexpectedly, the houseguests you exactly needed to see. The writing, in part, works because you think it does. As it’s put out, the subconscious is comfortable enough with what you’re doing to at least bring it to a different medium, if not another person.

It’s a form of salvation, if nothing else. Yes, it can be dramatic, the kind that announces itself with trumpets and fanfares and resurrection, but it’s often the quiet rescue. The one that happens when you stop trying to control the outcome and start paying attention to what wants to be said. Expectations handle salvation as if it were fragile glass. Hold it too tightly and it shatters—loosen your grip and it reflects light back at you, softly, unexpectedly.

Salvation is only comforting if you expect it, if you can anticipate it. But if you can control it — you’re no longer waiting. You’re watching the maple shift just a little bit faster, the heartbeat outside syncing with your own as you stand.