Those of us who do even the smallest amount of writing will find ourselves sooner or later in a quandary that may seem quite dark. This particualr quandry is not the one you might be thinking, no I’m talking about the act of writing itself and not the over used clutch of writers block.
Lately a few people have asked (repeatedly) why aren’t you writing or why haven’t I seen anything new from you in months, generally I let them know that indeed I am writing but not stuff I want to share at this moment. What I’m telling people is true but it blushes over the reality that I’m not writing regularly. I’m not sitting down most everyday and spinning webs of words and fantasy, no I’m using that important time to do other things and avoiding direct eye contact with the face of writing.
I assure everyone I have plenty to write about, thoughts are crashing and rattling around within my mind unceasingly. like Niagara Falls plots and ideas churn themselves to a boil within my skull and rarely do I come up from this hot mess for a breath of air. Oh sure I can read a book or watch TV and these pesky collections of words and pictures will recede for a moment or two, but if I don’t keep myself steeled with avoidance the words will slap me aside the head laughing and taunting my puny attempts to deny them.
The words and dreams are never offended when I turn away inching myself toward a more mundane project or maybe some high-minded thing like meditation, no the words know they ultimately are the master that I must give into if I ever want the peace that comes with answering the sirens call. Crashing upon that rocks is not the disaster many would have us believe, it is turning away from this passion and relegating your dreams to a dusty attic in your mind that is the real sin.
Put on some music, open the window letting warm softness of first spring fill your writing area and swirl around filling you with delight. Maybe take off your shirt and let this air bring a tingle upon your skin as you sit down to write, the tingle you feel when your creative juice’s traverse their way up and down your spinal column igniting you with magic, painting scene upon scenes so you might delight in your passion.
My foots tapping to the music, the air wraps itself around my naked upper torso lyrics asking me “who’s going to save me,” smiling I pick up my pen and touch it to paper writing one word after another…..
Writer’s can’t be saved they can only write…..