Some people say that a writer has to write every day of their lives to consider themselves as a writer.
That no matter whether there is inspiration in their heads or words on the ends of their fingertips, a writer writes; a sentence, a feeling, a thought, a word.
A writer allows the sentences that don’t exist to form at the end of the pen. They allow themselves to fill the silence when the silence is deafening within their own minds.
A writer writes down whatever they hear, no matter if they use it later on in a story or in some kind of post online.
A conversation on the bus ride to work is more than a blank page.
An encounter with a snotty customer is enough for its own conflict.
A writer writes no matter the internal struggle. No matter the silence. No matter the darkness. No matter the emptiness.
What gets written down doesn’t have to mean anything.
It does not have to solve some kind of mystery or give way to some kind of self-proclaiming insight.
It does not have to cure heartbreak or have its own rhythm.
What a writer writes down does not have to make sense.
It just needs to be written.
A writer must write.