Rough starts. Those are the best starts, aren’t they? You can’t tell me they don’t make for some of the best stories. Like Captain America, or Iron Man, or me writing this journal entry. Just a superhero exercising the superpower that all new creatives are blessed with:
Beep boop blibbity boppity boo. When you aren’t sure how to start a journal entry, then you’re probably overthinking it. Remember, when you’re journaling, whether you keep your entries totally private (like I used to do) or make them fully public (like I now do), the goal
Daily journal time, let’s go. Just now, before I started writing, I caught myself thinking about what I would write about. That’s against the rules. Any thinking is overthinking when it comes to the practice of stream-of-consciousness writing. The whole point of this practice is to
Create before you’re ready to begin and see what new, original art comes through you. Embrace the unknown, the uncertainty, the discomfort of diving into something without a plan, without an outline, and without any way to ensure you’re on the right track. You can’t fly if
Just dive in. That’s often easier than dipping one toe into the cold water, then the other toes bit by bit, and then the rest of that single foot. Just dive in. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t have to make sense. Creation is messy.
In the beginning, momentum is more important than direction. Imagine you're in a one-seater plane, and let's assume you know how to fly the plane. You're the pilot, sitting in your plane on the tarmac or whatever the long road is called where
Rafael was now eating one of his burritos, and Nina was standing next to Nader, who was still looking the other way, at where she had been a moment before. For Nader, it happened in the blink of an eye. In that blink, Rafael and Nina had had an entire
Raphael jumped as two hands landed on his shoulders. The woman was now directly behind him, and he immediately noticed the silence and stillness all around them. Time was frozen. “Whoa—” “There, there,” the woman said, patting his shoulder. “You’re not the only speeder around these parts. Hey, I’
Raphael and Nader emerged from Professor Garby’s lecture hall and into the light of day. “Dude, that was interesting, huh?” Nader said. “All the stuff about ancient civilizations with mysterious buildings and people with powers and—” “Should we ask Prof-Garb about . . .” Raphael looked around to make sure no
Nader glared at Raphael, silently mouthing an F-bomb as time unfroze. In a blink, Raphael seemed to teleport to the back of the gas station minimart, where he stood at the hot dog roller . . . getting another hot dog? “Wh—” the robber began. Nader was still on the ground, where
Aaand some ketchup. Raphael squirted extra extra ketchup onto the already loaded gas station hot dog because you just had to. An unexpected crash across the aisles, by the register, made him flinch and sent ketchup shooting toward the floor. What the— Someone had just fallen and brought down a
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” Raphael asked as Nader pulled out of the Orangebee’s parking lot and onto the main road. “Froyo Queen?” “Dude, you just ate one-and-a-half Siesta Lime Chickens. How can you still be hungry?” “I dunno.” Raphael patted his stomach. “The plan