Friday, January 13, 2012
It’s odd to me that I am not writing more now that I have more time. It seems when I was rushing about, taking classes and working that I had more time to write. I was made to write then, though, and now it’s all my own free choice. Creative writing was a relief when academics forced me to write what I thought.
And now I keep choosing to do other things. Unimportant or important things, but other things.
Funny, though, the words don’t go away. They fall out of my creativity in e-mails and notes and conversations.
They float around my car while I’m driving, “I have an idea!” They shout. “How would you describe that sky?” They ask. “Who lives in that house?” They question.
It would be nice if they could just behave. It would be nice if they would just wait until I’m unwinding at night. They could remind me of their existence and I would throw them into my laptop. Mix them around some. Let them hang out some. Give them form and purpose.
But that’s when they rest.
I need a good long writing day. I need some time at a coffee shop with a cuppa tea and a window and a cast of characters strolling by. A time when rambly words can be brought to task and placed on paper to help someone else understand someone else.
I have come to the conclusion that writing is an inconvenient art. It can’t be kept inside the lines. Stories are everywhere. It’s a writer’s curse to draw the stories and corral the words so others might see what we see.
I’m a writer, that’s a fact. It makes my world an interesting place. Of all the gifts God could have given me, this is the one He chose. I wear the burden of my art with a sense of responsibility. It is not enough for me to simply write. I feel my words need to encourage, uplift, build bridges of empathy and sympathy. Words have great power to bring life and death. I want my words to bring life.
Perhaps that's the real key to my lack of writing. I fear the sharing of the real words and won't let shallow phrases take their place.
And so the words push and pull my attention waiting for the time I cannot hold them still.
NOTE TO OTHER WRITERS: Don’t forget the writing contest. See my post of December 30 to get the details.
To order The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or A Friend Named Jesus, please e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org.