Blue Earth Review: If I were a gas, what color would I be? #iheartandronicus

I consider showering, brewing coffee, dancing to the Ting Tings when they come up on the Pandora station, and driving to be time spent writing. Watching a live stream of Kiev in flames: 6 minutes writing. Eavesdropping on the conversation of the couple in line ahead of me at HyVee: 2 minutes writing.

I can type feverishly for an hour or so, and that’s an hour of writing. But then I might read an essay, drink some more coffee, read the news, feed my fish Andronicus, tell Andronicus I love him in 3 different languages, tell him he’s sexy, tell him he’s the only fish in the world, text my sister. And that’s another hour of writing.

Ridiculous? With that kind of logic, LIFE is writing (*holds drag, slowly releases, passes left*), man. But that doesn’t mean you have any finished product to show for it.

But listen. This morning I waged war with a piece I’m working on about spectral lines and what stars are made of. Science and shit. Frustrated, I set a pot of coffee to brew, took a shower, and Lo. Water steaming off my eyelashes, it occurred to me—the connective tissue I’d been looking for. (#youhadtobethere #spoiler) Here it is: If my body evaporated to gas and my spectral lines were studied, what would be the patterns of my colors? #Pulitzer

Oxygen Spectral Lines #nerddom4ever #writingtime37seconds

That didn’t happen in front of a computer screen. That genius was born from standing ass naked with the foam of Hello Hydration Herbal Essences pooling at my feet.

Of essays I’ve written, none were born of cramped muscles and cut off circulation and utter silence and utter concentration and a rigid mind that said SQUEEZE, SQUEEZE it out, come on, 3000 words!

I’m all for self-discipline.

But we are physical creatures with cells and nerves and mitochondria and muscles and we have five senses and a lifespan that leaves residues of memory. We are made to stretch, taste, laugh, and get excited, and to me at least, that counts. As writing.

It counts as long as my brain’s in gear, and my project's at the front of my mind. And if I care about what I’m writing, I’m telling you, it’s there.

I’m not saying to let your outside shit seep in and get in the way of writing. Definitely don't become a Facebook zombie. I’m saying, let your writing hook its claws into your shit.

Words are born from having a healthy blood flow to the brain, from being curious, engaged, making connections, and always being ready to grab them.

#yolo