After laying wakefully in bed for hours, playing video games and scrolling for boyshort underwear on Amazon and then disappearing to the shower to take care of some needs, I finally, at long last, plopped myself down in front of my sketchbook and did some highly unproductive doodling with my left hand.
After a minor explosion of production anxiety the dust cloud settles, and there is nothing left to be heard but the scritch and rasp of pen on paper.
Unproductivity, when done correctly, is not unproductive at all, a truth I had forgotten over the past few years of hustle and bustle. Unproductivity gives room for thoughts to breathe and stretch out. Opportunities for a breed of self discovery that, for me, are only found in the quiet meditation shared between artist and medium.
And that's when I notice her.
HER. The writer I constantly search for, the one whose existence I've been starting to doubt. She's real. She's here. Figuring shit out, finding her voice, getting ready for the trip of a lifetime. Growing up, growing strong. Practicing. Her hand is on the door knob and she is breathing in. Soon she will fling the door wide and walk into a world that she will create herself.
Patience. I must give her time, lest I kill her with productivity before she has a chance to be born.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
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