Writing is like a muscle, they say. Use it regularly, and you’ll get better, stronger. They’re right. What they don’t say, is that the type of movement matters.
I write all day. Reams and reams. Words pour from my hundred-meter fingers.
An accountant of words. Dry and drab and cubicalised. Punching out my memo streams like a clever little drone.
“She writes so well” my colleagues say. “Oh please won’t you look at this?” they wheedle.
And I preen and edit. And convince myself it matters.
Until the page stares. Waits. With the deep patience of something uncreated.
Click, click, delete. Click, click, delete.
And the critic in my head gives a wry smile and says “You’re only fit for emails, girl. Who do you think you are?”