500 Words

They say it doesn’t matter what you write, as long as you write.
Chad says,  write 500 words a day. Period. You don’t need to publish. You just need to write.
I look at him and roll my eyes, my defense to most things.
The questions always swirl: What do I have to say? Who am I to say anything? What can I say that hasn’t already been said? What hasn’t already been said. . better. . . louder?

It doesn’t matter, the experts say, just write.

The experts. The men and women who have their names printed in bold print on the covers and spines of books. Books that are stacked on my coffee table, testing the strength of its four legs. The experts have already shed their blood onto the pages. They’ve wiped the sweat from their brows. Their tears have fallen on keyboards and smeared ink. Celebratory tears? Tears of frustration? Both, I presume.

Write 500 words, Chad says. Everyday, he tells me. Sit down and write. You may never publish the words. They may never be seen by eyes other than yours. Just write.

I challenge him. Who are you to tell me?  I resist the truth of his words.

Instead I pick up printed words by those who have already walked the road. I read and dream and assume–this is for them. I am a spectator. A consumer. My voice is small. My voice is stuck somewhere inside.

Inside there are thoughts always swirling. Thoughts about life and love and faith. Thoughts about the world and good and evil. Thoughts about humanity and passion. The thoughts are always there, saved for the safe places. Saved for the friends who will love me on the other side of it.

I resist.

Fear.

I pick up my camera. I take a picture. This is safe.

This is comfortable.

I sit on the shore and the books continue to gather around me. Read. Read. Read. Consume. Consume. Consume.

Leave the writing to the experts. The ones with their names bold on covers and on spines.

I watch from the sidelines. I spectate from the shore.

Am I meant to stay on the shore?

There was a day when I dreamed of being a photographer. When I dreamed of venturing from the shore. Of diving in. Or, simply stepping in. Taking that next step.

I took the step. I didn’t know where the step would lead.

We never know.

Am I meant to stay on the shore? Are any of us?

The floors need swept. Emails need responses. Laundry needs folded. Instagram needs scrolled.

There is always an excuse.

Sit down and write, he tells me. Just do it, as if he’s Nike. Stop reading, he says gently, just write.

500 words.

The experts say it doesn’t matter what you write. Just write. Become comfortable with your voice. No filters. Just write.

Today, it’s simply the next step.

The floors need swept. Little people want breakfast. Instagram doesn’t need me.

Today, it’s simply 500 words.