22 Minutes

I heard recently that it takes "creative-types" around 22 minutes to get into their state of creative "flow".

That proves true for me, in general, with an exception for the past decade or so that I've been avoiding my creative "flow" obstinately. I think we can call that at outlier, though. I'm comfortable with that.

In more recent days, I sit down every morning at my desk with my computer or notepad placed purposefully in front of me with absolutely no idea what I'm doing. These muscles haven't been utilized in so damn long. The "flow" of this creative, metaphorical river feels more like what my grandpa would dialectically call the trickling of a struggling "crick". I find myself asking the same question that this challenge poses. It would be so much easier just to get back in bed and browse Instagram.

Regardless, as obstinately as I've been avoiding voluntary creativity for the majority of my adult life, I start to write. Even before that 22-minute sweet spot, I start to remember why this was a thing I pushed myself to do, once upon a time.

It's becuase I can do whatever I want.

In my journal, on a post-it note, in this challenge, I can do whatever I goddamn please. I could use as many adjectives as I could think of to describe the look of the mountain outside my window, or just the pencil that is currently to the left of my left-hand pinky finger. I could spend three pages ruminating on the taste of one brand of coffee in contrast to another. If I felt so inclined, I could write a story about a cow who becomes the next President of the United States. It wouldn't be good, and I think the audience looking for that would be a fascinating one, but I could do it.

Let's disregard estimates of 22-minutes or the initiation of any kind of "flow". When I ask myself why I write, I'm not asking why writing is fluid or easy or good. I'm asking why I sit down at my desk with anything in front of me at all.

I write becuase I can do whatever I want. I write because it sets me free.