Sometimes I write nothing of consequence and so question my sincerity. Then I start to question 'me' in everything. Do I have what it takes? It doesn't matter what I write for. But do I have what it takes?
I usually give up. I think of the big things, the larger picture, and deny the small important links. It's a lie, really. I forget the blades of grass beneath me. I forget the steps I took to get here. I forget the specific moments and try to learn from the grand. But smallness is vital to life. A tiny face, rolling a ball back and forth, the tongue hanging lopsided in expectation. Play with me! It's fun for him and changes me, a break in the strict rigidity in which I work. A small laugh across the room pierces the silence and sends me loose on a healthy chase of the present, loosening my tight grip on elusive memories and dreams.
Then, if I'm careful enough, small drops of remembrance seem to pour from unknown places and make me want to cry and I have no idea why or what I wrote but I keep writing-- only if and when I stop I'll realize the truth of sort and get over myself. Quickly. But I have to deny the urge to pout.
That's the essence of little writing. Talk about a lot of littles, then go back to the front, find the big idea, and make it all connect.