One does not need to call themselves writer in order to write.
You arrive at a day, which is just like the days before it, but on this day, you have decided you are going to write.
You are going to write about…
Wait. What are you going to write about???
You take a deep breath and a sip of coffee, which you spent several minutes savoring the ritual of. You turned the faucet on, poured water in pot (you keep forgetting to ask for a kettle whenever anyone asks what you want/need). You turn the heat on the front burner and wait for the water to boil.
While you wait, you measure out coffee grinds. You inhale and think, this is love. This is why my bones stir beneath my skin. This is romantic. This is music. This is life.
The water boils. You pour it into your french press, because they are far better than traditional coffee makers and you love the act of pressing the filter/plunger down. It feels like a mini-workout to you, though you admit this to no one.
Again, you wait. You wait for saturation to occur.
Then, when you are ready. When the coffee is ready. You pour. Into favorite mug stolen from some brunch you had in some cafe that has since shut down in some city where you fell in love with some person you no longer speak to.
How to begin.
Well, you’ve got your coffee. Or tea. Or mug of whiskey. (whoever you are)
You’ve got your paper or computer or typewriter.
But where to start?
How about here.
How about with the first sip of chosen beverage. Write about what it feels to give it permission into your mouth. It doesn’t matter that you have never done this before. You have never written anything. Or you have. But in this moment, whoever you are, your paper is blank. And it waits.
It waits for you to begin.