I leisurely drank a glass of wine while watching the sun settle behind the trees this evening. A moment I needed. And in some inexplicable way I feel the moment needed me. I often feel the energy of life longs for us as much as we long for it.
For those who wonder, the life of a writer is very much like that of a visionary and a builder. The words written from our passion are written on speculation; sentences built on the hope of a receptive audience. We have no guarantee. But if writing is within one’s molecular structure then writing is what they must do. They write even while watching the sun set gently in the sky. Never do they merely observe. Even within their mind, they write what they see. They feel with emotions that would suffocate most, but that’s what enables them to later put the feeling into words. As the moment held texture, something that can later be transcribed. Writers like me are the one’s that can articulate the passion, or lack thereof, behind a solitary kiss. We know when it is lacking. And we know when it holds the bitterness of ecstasy; the pain that says I must have this again. Leaves never simply fall to the ground when viewed by a writer. Instead they relinquish their hold, then allow the wind to take them away; fate says their time is done. Life is always there for us to transcribe. We are the messengers. We say all the things others hold inside. Most of all we dance upon your soul and enter the places you hold private from others.
I often held the romantic notion of being the prolific writer that sat for hours on end with a cognac and cigar. Both emitting an intoxicating aroma while I allowed the movies in my mind to manifest onto the page. Oddly, that isn’t the life I lead. And as some are curious, I will settle your curiosity by saying I almost never stop working. I begin work often before 5am and finish after everyone else has succumb to slumber. This is not an exaggeration. Good writing is never in need of exaggeration. Instead, it relies upon the simplicity found when poignantly exploiting the truth. And the truth is, rarely do I turn off my working mind.
Unlike my romantic notion of surviving on liquor while typing the whispered words of my muse; I’m the mother of two and a dog. The latter of which keeps me busy with her incessant need to go outside, merely to sniff around. But it’s the look in her eye and the energy she emits that causes me to crack to her demands. Her connection with God is pure. She is my balance. Most writers have an animal perched by their side. As we plunge deep into the psyche these gentle beasts often pull us back to the surface.
This is not a glamorous life unless there is glamour in touching the lives of many. For me, my success is measured by such. There are many writers like me; each with our own timbre, our own tone. But we have the same purpose. We build on speculation. Our vision won’t allow us to escape. Instead often the words of others are silenced to the voice of our muse. Instead of looking silently at our lover, we can’t help but to find words that capture the starburst that sits at the center of his sea blue eyes. And when watching our children smile, we can’t help but to see how their joy is the very presence of this ethereal thing we call God.
So to those who want to write, I say write. But know this, if writing is your purpose, if writing is within your being – it will forever beckon you. It is your breath. And in time, it becomes the beat of your heart. If you can do that, then write.