Writing feels like a chore without joy; the words are heavy and futile. But when writing springs from that childlike fountain of enthusiasm within, it flows with graceful ease. Charm transforms struggle into play.
How tempting it is to bend writing to external validation, sculpting keyboard strokes to impress faceless critics! But forced writing rings hollow. Create only to give form to your vibrant inner world. Write first for your eyes alone.
Esteemed readers know when language lives. Bland imitation inspires none. But when we write from irrepressible inner mirth, passion leaps off the page, lighting minds. Our authentic joy kindles theirs.
Why is numb creativity under pressure's anaesthetic? Writing is not some sober productivity-driving task but the outflow of your fully-lived vitality. It bears no urgency beyond the spirit's restless desperation to take shape through symbols. Create only when words bubble up effervescently, spilling secrets from your wild heart faster than fingers allow.
Write always through joy's portal into the marvellous. Let writing's magic banish bland routine; the mundane transmuted into the haunting. Bring forth new realities through joyful genesis only.
Don't just transcribe ideas. Make writing a dance, a trance, a spiritual ceremony; your words are the hymns. Let writing return you to your childlike wonder when creation felt as natural as breath.
So come, pick up your pen again, but this time as a devoted vessel for the muse's divine dictation. Let joy guide your hand, and you will touch hearts. Write with abundant joy or not at all.
