When I have nothing to write about, as has happened here most evenings, I write about something true that has happened to me. It's just for practice, for moving the pen across the page. Tonight it took every ounce of effort just to sit my over-stimulated mind down for a minute to do even that.
Today I told my friend a story over breakfast about my parents, and started to write it down, but stopped after only a paragraph. Then I wrote three pages about a humiliation suffered in grade school.
Another friend agreed over lunch that this isn't the city to get a writing life started in, but she said it was because this town requires you to work so much just to stay afloat that one would never have the time. Here I naively thought it would be because of all the interesting things to do.
It was good to sit with friends and talk and knit today. The writing was terrible, but I did that, too.