People ask me what I’m working on next. It takes a few minutes to get my tap shoes on and start dancing. For some reason it always makes me feel defensive, like what’s it to you. Then guilty because I haven’t really started anything. Then ridiculous for hedging and waffling and acting like I can’t remove my thumb from my ass. What am I working on? Don’t I counsel all my writers to start a project right away? I forget how much air it takes to fill a balloon. Fans, flames, germs, seeds, a single image, a forgotten page. Something from nothing. Bring my roots rain.
How do you start?
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