Give yourself whatever stretch of time is most elastic, the hours that open, the minutes that, spongey, give way to something below them, beyond them. That time where, pressed, the bookshelf swings open to become a door.
It’s a different time for everyone. Don’t follow your ideal fantasy–what you wish you were–to some other rhythm than your own. Find your rhythm–imperfect, bumpy, jostling you toward a place of flow. The narrow widens, gives way. You find yourself scratching sentences into wet sand, dazzled by the shape of them, involved in the simple labor of their carving, the heaps of residue that crumble at the edges of the divine gully made by your stick.
What I mean to say is, find the easy way in, the moments when you are already dreaming, the censor asleep, the fear at bay, and space growing wide and wild around you: enormous morning. Take your pen and disappear into it. Leave your trail of crumbs.