You can’t write your memoir till both your parents are dead – because you might hurt them. You can’t write about the day you saw the forest near your house cut to the ground; or the old theatre blown to rubble; or the rolling fields becoming miles of suburbs – because it hurts too much. You can’t write about the way the cold hands of the attacker felt on your flesh- because just to think of that time brings on nightmares to haunt your waking and sleep. You can’t write the story of the corporation that cut you to the ground and blew you to rubble. You can’t write the next word because it won’t be strong enough, beautiful enough, “professional” enough. So you don’t write the Forbidden. You don’t write at all.
Sometimes the most simple step forward is the most powerful. Set your timer for ten minutes, no more. Then begin: I must not write about…
May your courage in moving your words onto the blank page move you to shelter.
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