There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. — Ernest Hemingway
I like Hemingway’s sentiment, but it’s rare that I sit at the computer or a piece of paper and bleed. Nothing gushes forth. I move, painstakingly, from one word to the next.
For me, writing is more often like trying to get a blood sample for a glucose meter test trip. I prep the lancet, push the release button. A slight squeeze of the finger. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I try again. Still nothing. I attempt a different finger. Maybe the blood is moving more swiftly, rests closer to the surface. No. No.
All right. A new lancet. The same finger, maybe a different one. Pull back the trigger. Release. A sharp pain. I wince. Surely this one is the one.
It’s not. Next step: rub my hands together, like two sticks for kindling. Maybe my hands are too cold. They need to warm up.
Another try. Set the lancet. Send it into my finger. Ah. There. A small drop, but it should be enough. I hold my finger to the strip and fill it.
Image: Paree (Creative Commons)