I’m struggling with it now. But I’m gonna’ lay it bare for you. Buck naked, so to speak, my mind exposed to the world. Hell, maybe I don’t even really know what’s in there.

The more stories I’ve written, the faster I’ve approached a wall. 60, 70, 80 mph, type, type, type–crash! That wall is made of concepts and end results: structure, genre, character, dialog, theme. Brick after brick, stacked thick and tall, mortar and grit and stone. I’m no longer sounding like myself. I’m not inspired. Just sounds like mortar and stone. I’ve lost sight of something. Or lost something inside myself.

I’m looking for my inner voice. Got to return to something more natural and rekindle a flame, a passion. Want to sound natural, sound like how I might speak. Let things blossom. So, I started writing a journal. Not a, “Dear Diary,” kind of thing. Not a, “You did this and that to me and now I can’t stand you,” thing. Just several lines or paragraphs a day of saying something. Just write it. Say it. Let it flow…

Okay, first day, I wrote this:

I want to write a book. A novel. A best seller. One that will be loved. And cherished. Talked about by others.

It’s dark and empty in my head. I write themes. And read books. Many books. I write plots and outlines. It all seems uninspired, uninteresting, boring. I can’t connect to anything. Dark and boring. Empty of the life inside me.

So I sit outside, on the walkout. Light up a cigar and puff grey clouds of smoke. I think. I stare at the basin. The low scrub waiting for Spring. My hands are cold. I try to relight the cigar. Should I create a character list? What genres are popular? Should I imitate someone’s work?

I fumble with the lighter. Just manage the striker. I puff again. This is so much easier than writing. Than typing to a structure. Than sitting at my desk.

But something in that darkness haunts me. It’s not my face. It’s a creature. Whispering things. Failure. Loner. Forgotten.

I want to write a book.

The next morning, I reread it. Am I trying to write bad poetry? Is this how I would speak, naturally? Can I imagine standing next to someone, saying these words, in this order, in this way? No, I wouldn’t. I’m thinking too much about an end product, a result.

Next day, try again:

It’s pea soup. I don’t like soft, mushy beans. That goes for peas. It’s all green and thick and soft. Are they a bean? Yuck, anyway.

Is that how I would really speak? If there was a steaming bowl of green goop under my nose? Would I actually say something like that? Maybe. But I better keeping writing in this journal. A little bit, added each day to the document. Trying to imagine that I’m standing there. Seeing it. Saying it. Naturally. Inner voice. Forget trying to sound literary-like. Forget style. Themes. Genre. Instead, find something in my core.

Maybe next week, I’ll have done a better job of finding my actual voice. Then it’s on to the next step, still experiencing what I discover within myself, for now. Carrying forward. And then stepping back when I forget my inner voice.

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