I sat down to write this morning.

I opened my journal and grabbed my Pilot G-2 07 pen. I sat in front of the blank lined pages and thought about what I wanted to write.

A poem?     Morning Pages?    A story?

I thought and thought y nada. 

Nothing was coming out. Nothing was on the page. I wasn’t spending any ink from my favorite pen, into my favorite journal with the Los Angeles Dodgers logo, while sitting on the burn orange sofa of the studio apartment in Berkeley. While the branches and leaves on the trees on University Avenue swayed in the Bay Area breeze, I sat and thought.

Y nada. 

Then it hit me. Like the first spicy burp after eating chorizo con huevo. It wasn’t a lack of ideas to write. It wasn’t un chingo. I just wasn’t writing.

So I sat, on the burnt orange sofa, had my oatmeal with blueberries and mushroom coffee. Grabbed my journal with the Dodgers logo, Go Doyers!, and my Pilot pen. And wrote.

Wrote nothing but words. Random ideas that made no sense to anyone. That looked like the scribbles of a child after having a couple Pop-Tarts and a Red Bull for breakfast. Words on a page was what mattered. This morning. Today. Words on a page.

Because words on a page, become sentences in a book, dialogue in a play or screenplay. The random ideas that fall out of the pen onto the page become a sketch or painting. Words on a page grow. Like seeds become a tree. Like a drop of rain becomes a lake. Like a note becomes a symphony.

Today I sat down to write. And Resistance trembled.

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