Recently, I started reading a book on creative writing. The first few pages offered some solid advice. I found it all rather intimidating. The author says that a writer writes and that when a writer starts writing for themselves they find their voice and the real creative work begins.
Writing for myself has seemed unusually difficult lately. My voice must live in an unexplored land. It’s foreign territory. The ground feels soft and squishy under my feet. It’s just like Alaskan tundra. It spends most of the year under layers of snow and ice. When all the snow and ice thaws it becomes a carpet. Stepping on it feels like walking on a mattress or one of those insane rope net bridges strung across some remote South American gorge. I can’t look down. I just have to hang on and keep going.