A River Around the World

by Natalie Robin

I am starting to resent looking out windows and seeing nothing to extract.  I think I have sucked all the life out of the places that I frequent and perhaps I need a new atmosphere. Familiarity is nice, but I feel like the kind of writer who is only inspired by flux. I feel a richness in my senses when I am somewhere I have not been before and I wish there was a river that flowed through every back-country and metropolis where I could sit in a little oaken boat and write as I’m carried along.

I still obviously experience many things in the humble route of my day, but many I am hesitant to venture an attempt to transcribe. Not only do I not want to do those experiences a disservice by placing a cage of words over them, but when I choose to use emotion over logic as the mediator between the happening of events and the communicated experience of those events, a parasitic self-consciousness leeches into my heart and reddens my visceral blush.

Though despite the many inevitable tensions in writing that I recognize, the only choices I see for myself are to either stop writing or get over it and practice my prose.

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