I’m not sure where it began. Where I was, who I was having sex with, or whether I was happy, sad or numb. But somewhere along the way writing became intoxicating.
I remember writing questions in my journal. Then magically having the answers appear in life. And soon an inner knowing began to steal the pen. I would watch excitedly as words filled the page. Where do they come from?
Writing became spiritual.
Soon I would write parable love stories to a lover in contest. A heart-opening story would pour out from within me. I’d crush the send button and wait. Nothing. No reply. Six hours later, or ten, whenever my anticipation had reached critical mass, or when my lover found the time to set free her own story, I would find a reply to melt my heart and mind.
I was lost in a fairy tale. Lost in words. Discovering how my writing can invoke emotion, transformation or distain. All WRITE here on the page.
I think sometimes I was meant to write for you. But then again I don’t do it often. Like so many authors I keep an archive of half finished manuscripts and books. Lost in the muse. Perhaps too afraid to open the chasm yearning to be put to page, unwilling to let those stories be told. To witness them as they are born.
That fascinates me. Finding a reservoir of pure potential. And not having the courage to let it free. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like fear. Maybe the story is just too BIG for the page. Or that inner knowing waits for the perfect time to set it free?
These questions keep me coming back. What lives in the infinite space? Waiting … jockeying time.
And so I keep writing.
The exploration of an unseen, the power to make a lover melt, or to craft the perfect sales copy to move people. A timeless act captured in a saved text read over, and over again.
Maybe it’s my desire for communication the passion to convey information, to be understood. In a world where each person sees something different, to somehow find words for a perfect piece to share the perfect message in the shortest time.
If this were a page I wonder how much empty space is left.
If I stopped here …
Would I have said enough?