It’s 8am and the ground is covered with snow. It could be about five inches or more. The pine trees’ branches are heavy with white tufts that bend them low. It’s cold outside, but warm inside and a perfect day to write. The sun that peeks down through the trees easily trick the eye and mind into believing that it might not be as cold as you know it is. But experience teaches that it is best to stay inside, put on a warm sweater, grab a cup of tea and allow that spark of imagination to instead hit the page.
The writing life isn’t always an easy one. It is quiet and often filled with moments of introspection—and many days of alone time. But on days like these, when the mind begins to wander off into distant places, writing becomes an elixir and a friend that cracks the silence like a clap of thunder on a stormy night. A room where I now sit alone, will team with voices and motion, all competing for a chance to tell a story—any story.
The excitement may prompt me to turn on, very low, but not intrusive, some classical music. Although neither necessary or unnecessary, it adds another dimension to the spiritual din that fills the room. The characters nudge me along, whispering words that almost seem as though they are not entirely my own.
Every action inspires an idea…from picking up a glass of water to drink, to picking up a pen to make a note. Some flashes of inspiration are directly related to the action, others find their way on the page through a series of journeys that started from the glass of water, and end in a magical world that lives under the sea.
As writers, we see and hear things the average person cannot begin to imagine. Hours will float by seeming like only minutes to us. And during that time, we are the life givers, the resuscitators, the let-there-be-light creators of our work and of the world we’ve brought into existence.
For the real writer, one who is dedicated to sharing the story of characters come to visit, writing becomes a virus. It is the type of virus that infects our soul without robbing it of its health and vitality. And no matter how many times we fall prey to it, something is born from it. And in the end, we are rejuvenated.
I love to write. My life is writing. And although a very slow and deliberate writer, I believe that if even one person receives something from those who people my pages, then their whispers have not gone unheard…their story has been told.
For those who write and for those who are readers, welcome to the writing life.