Heavenly Avocado Sisters, I bow before you and confess that I have too often forgotten that I am a writer. Sometimes I carry on my life as if there are no poems and stories and essays within me, and no notebooks and pens and laptops to record them if they arise. I fall short of being a credible writer among you.
O Holy Word-God, I call to You and name You as eternal, ever-present, and boundless in expression. Yet there are times when I fail to recognize You in the dailyness of my life. Sometimes fear makes me small, and I deny my power of saying. Sometimes doubt crushes my aspiration, and I dishonor my own knowing.
In the daily round from sunrise to sunset, help me seize the moment-by-moment possibilities to live honestly, act courageously, and write from my experience and wisdom.
(If you have any fessin’ up to do, here are some coolacado templates.)
I’ve never called my chronic failure to “put butt in seat and write” writer’s block—defined as “the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing”—but instead recognize it as a misdiagnosis of one predictably common devil: Fear, expressed via paralyzing perfectionism, an uncooperative inner critic, resignation, cynicism, all manner of rationalization and justification.