A foggy morning comes to greet me today bringing with it a sense that pulls me towards my pencil and paper, giving me a strange compulsion to leave marks on a page, transforming the nature of thought into something more concrete.

Annie Dillard wrote that “how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” These morning hours hunched over notebooks matter in ways we might not immediately recognize. Each moment of creation stands unique, never to be repeated in exactly the same way.

Writing becomes an act of cartography – we map the territory of our own minds. The blank page offers itself as wilderness. We venture forth, day after day, learning its contours, discovering its hidden rivers and valleys. We chart what we find there, and in doing so, we come to know ourselves.

Julia Cameron’s practice of morning pages – those three handwritten pages completed first thing upon waking – serves as a ritual of orientation. Like ancient sailors taking measurements of stars to determine their position, we write to discover where we are. The practice isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence.

The physical act matters too. The tactile sensation of pen against paper, the familiar weight of a notebook, the sound of fingers striking keys. These embodied experiences anchor abstract thought. Through them, writing becomes not merely an intellectual exercise but a full-bodied engagement with the world.

Why do we write at all? Perhaps to capture what Virginia Woolf called “moments of being” – those rare instances when the cotton wool of daily life parts and we glimpse something profound beneath the surface. Good writing preserves those moments. It creates a place where they can live and breathe beyond our fleeting perception.

For the writer, ritual forms the backbone of creative life. The morning coffee, the specific notebook, the familiar chair – the particular details vary, but the principle remains constant. We show up. We begin. The words follow. Something happens in this showing up that cannot be summoned any other way.

And so I invite you, dear reader, to consider your own relationship with the written word. What calls you to the page? What happens in that private space between thought and expression? What discoveries await in the daily practice of paying attention?

The page offers itself as a mirror, reflecting not just what we think but how we think. It reveals patterns, obsessions, blind spots, and occasional moments of accidental brilliance. The practice teaches patience. It rewards perseverance. It asks only that we return, again and again, with open hands and curious minds.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the fog is lifting, and there are pages yet to fill.