Write this down

It's time and time enough, I think, to write again. I resist, I refuse, and in the end I have to write anyway. Yet when I sit to write, choosing a time and place, I often cannot think of something to write. It's 4:56 a.m. here; I've been awake nearly an hour, and all I can do is write. I don't know why, at this obnoxious hour of the morning, I have to get it out. But that is simply how it is. Perhaps my chosen time to write ought to be zero dark thirty.

I cannot keep from writing. My friend wants to see more of my writing. She thinks I'm talented and I should get a job writing for the local paper. She wants to see more of my writing, and I can't disappoint her. She believes in me, and that's too precious, too valuable, and too unexpected to ignore. What do I write? Mostly, I just write what I think, and see where it goes. There may be a lot of rocks, but there's that nugget of gold worth panning for, most times. How do I know what it is? Much of the time I don't. Rereading is what brings the point home to me. I generally have no idea what I'm doing until later. Now, all I can do is write it down. But that's enough.