If you are a writer, you must listen. You must listen to your instincts. You must listen to the world. You must listen to the things that lack conventional voice. You must listen to the trees, the river, the deer, the rocks, the fungus, the rust, the sunrise and the moon. You must listen to your characters, to the sound of vowels, to the rhythm of language as well as its meaning. You must disengage, every day, from the noise and commerce and traffic and politics of the world. You must not let anyone tell you how to do it. You must not let anyone tell you what’s important. You must not let anyone tell you that you must do A, B, or C.
What fed your soul as a child?
What did you do before the serpent of social media?
Where were your secret places before you became an adult?
What calmed your heart?
What quieted your mind?
What circumvented the chatter?
What is the last thing you picked up off the ground and put into your pocket?