For weeks and weeks
maybe even months
I have been writing
but it has been
a different kind of writing,
different than a pen and a notebook,
different than poetry.

I have been writing a kind of writing
that requires a computer
the ability to use both of my hands
to write faster
to keep up with the dialogue and the story
pouring down from my head,
the kind of writing
where you can see word counts
at the bottom of the screen,
and pages and paragraphs
and can easily go back and make changes
if, realizing after a while,
thoughts have run off-kilter.

These weeks and months
have kept me writing
nearly every day
in joy, in creativity,
in imagination
and the wonder of seeing
my mind’s movies begin a life
on paper.

The trouble, though,
if chosen to be seen in such a way,
is the lure of my computer
and open Word document
call out to me with urgency greater
than my pen and notebook.

The pen and notebook
have remained in their spot
on the living room coffee table
beside the plant
and below the window
ready on the side stage
for a call that has faded away,
pages left empty.

I find myself in a confusing place
because the desire to write
and share the words I do
remains
in fact,
the desire grows stronger every day.
The dissonance lies
in the difficulty of sharing words
from a novel in-progress
and yet
having no other words written
seemingly better suited
to be shared with the world.

I feel a pull to absolve the dissonance
between the words I write
and the words I share.
Break my self-imposed rules
of what type of art belongs where.
Dissolve the criteria
of where art must be born
and rather, shift focus
to capturing the magical moments
themselves, as they are,
no matter the medium
or method.

Sharing art for the
simple, generous, vulnerable, beautiful,
act of doing so –
this is what I have lost
and what I want to reclaim.