You make promises to yourself, efforts to steer yourself back into a spine that feels like home. Circle the manuscript like a stray dog fearful of love. There may be something to eat in there. Promises are equal parts pressure and hope. Day one is just to open the door, glance at the jumble, reintroduce yourself. Friend or foe? It's been a long absence, you'll settle for a smile and a wave. Just a little snack.
Time makes your joints rusty, but it's nothing you can't warm up. One toe at a time, one turn of phrase. Just open the blank page, just try a syllable on for size.
Just start.
There isn't much more to it than that.
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