Write about longing.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, please be sure to give feedback to a few other writers.
Here’s my practice:
I used to long for deserts. I used to long for long horizons filled with nothing but red dirt and white, effacing skies. Destroying yourself can be beautiful too, and I imagined myself staring into sunsets in that place and forgetting my life entirely.
I longed for less because I didn’t have enough and wanted to erase my need for anything. And because of the sharpness of my longing, it had color and form, filled with contrast and sharp line. It was a Picasso; its shapes fractured and fragmented by the strength of my desire. I miss my longing.
Because I don’t long for deserts anymore. Instead, I want cities. I want tall buildings fill with beautifully apportioned rooms, bookshelves stacked with color, plays in the evenings followed by cocktails and warm conversations with friends, Ann Arbor, with its excess of accessible culture, parks where I can watch my daughters play. This is the dull, muddled longing of the already content.
Desire is the spice of life. What do you do when you get what you want? How do you cope when what you miss is the longing itself?