The critical one within me stifles my thoughts and keeps them stuck, unlike me, and untrue. When I breathe well with a relaxed posture, Ludivico Einaudi's passionate, contemplative piano music in my ears, I feel less like tearing up the pages and starting over again and again.
Sometimes I do nothing that seems important. I'll look outside of the window and daydream, drink a cup of breakfast tea, or read books that contain the honesty I admire. And these are the solitary times when new ideas are gathered. Without strain, the words lightly float towards us like little lily pads, slowly, slowly.
Where does good writing come from? I believe that it comes from a life well-lived. It doesn't have to be filled with incredible adventures, with skydiving and leaping off cliffs, or owning yachts, and mansions that rise up into the sky, or an impressive collection of beautiful books, or fifty friends. To me, it means living authentically, kindly, and simplistically, like holding a fallen flower with its bent stem and tiny dew drops, careful of the petals, holding it as a child, and forgetting the right things.