I spent last Friday night in my bed in my studio in St. Barts listening to the rain drum on the rooftop and writing. Like many other things forgotten in the hustle of daily life, I hadn't realized how hungry I was to write until I sat down to do it, until I forced myself to say fuck it to inhibition and put words to (virtual) paper.
So I threw inhibition to the wind and wrote. The more quickly I wrote, the more ravenous I became. I woke up this morning wanting to write. No, needing to write. A need comparable to the need to eat or breathe. As my life is a life of words, feeding that need is only natural.
So who cares if this post is shitty. Or if it isn't my most beautiful post ever. Anne Lamott says you have to let your first drafts be shitty, so I'll consider this blog an entire first draft of whatever I may write in the future.
Who cares if sometimes I write in English but think the same thoughts in French. Or that I (paradoxically) have more trouble being precise with the images I'm trying to create because I have at my fingertips a bilingual brain competing with itself. Or that I can hear the French behind my English. Who could've ever thought that being bilingual would make writing harder...or maybe this is just me.
All that matters is that my writing self is starving and wants to be fed, so all it matters is that I give that self some food.