A Metaphor for Writing

I measure my creative impulses by the physics of my childhood backflips. It is a muscle-memory instinct that exists entirely in its anticipation. Before I managed to flip in the water, I could feel the exact geometry of the movement hovering. I knew the momentum was there, waiting, just an inch out of physical reach.

But inhabiting that gap is where the actual labor lives. There is a distinct, frustrating space between the initial spark of the story and the impact of the keyboard. I have to actively work at it, forcing myself to push through the vastness, or simply allow the mundane functions of my day to take over until the timing aligns. I wash dishes, look through emails, and fold laundry, all while keeping one eye on that suspended, unexecuted flip. The space isn't empty; it is heavy with potential energy, a waiting room as I constantly calibrate my world. 

I sit at my kitchen table, staring at the flashing cursor. The sentence vibrates just above the keyboard, teasing me with its completeness. I can see the beginning. Bridging the gap requires a specific type of mental friction that always feels like running uphill. I close my eyes, waiting for the internal gears to click into place. I am perpetually balancing on the edge of an unseen precipice, sometimes waiting and searching to align myself enough with what I feel.