Finding the words is key. Not just any words – the beautiful, blunt ones. Each one imprecise by itself, but when assembled in a constellation suddenly able to carry an emotional texture unmatched in its depth and fine, fine resonance. A little like oven gloves. Clumsy and useless alone, but once paired, capable of so much more.
I’ve been carrying one oven glove for weeks now. Academic writing seems to do that to my creative process. Too much reading about media and famine, punctuated with difficult journalism about the horrible things faceless people are capable of doing to children. Coiled like a spring, until it becomes impossible to sleep anymore. Too many anxious dreams about rewinding the lives of others and choosing differently.
Don’t go to school today. The rains aren’t coming.
But the missing glove comes. It always does. It’s just a matter of patience, and learning not to compose one-glove essays, articles or blog posts.