More, sort of, on sales.
Every weekday, I set up a little storefront here. I offer you 300 words. It will cost you time to buy them, at the expense of other words you could buy with that time, other tasks you could complete. It will cost you attention, focus that could be spent on other relationships. It will cost you peace, as you get frustrated with the words, or the thoughts behind them, or the claims on your heart. I’m offering and you are giving up something of value.
Every weekday, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God, and I take a seat in this box. I offer testimony about what I have seen, what I have felt. There are questions from prosecution and defense. What I have said in the past is brought up, put in front of me, called into question. And I do my best to give a clear account of what I know.
Every weekday, I sit with a blank heart and Sharpie and begin to draw. The lines are usually just lines. Sometimes they don’t go much beyond that. And I put up a stick figure in this window into my heart and go to bed and get up the next day and start again. But sometimes, the Sharpie draws blood.
Every weekday, I put on my dungarees and my yellow hardhat and pick up my shovel and head into the mines. I’m looking for those 300 word nuggets in images John captured, in prayers David said.
Every weekday, I sit quietly. Bruised, confused, I read love letters. With shaky hand, I hold my Highlighter. I draw it over words, hoping they flow from my fingers to my heart.
Every weekday, so do you.