Friday, June 21, 2013

Fresh flowers of ink.



Y'all, I have thought so much about writing this week!

And thought about it...

And thought about it some more.

I know, right?

Sometimes I wish that all of my thoughts about writing could transfer themselves to the page lickity split, minus that whole pen-to-paper, hand-to-keyboard deal...

But then, last night - I WROTE.

Not here, not where you could see it, and sometimes in this age of finding a niche, of creating a platform, of updating Twitter time and time again, it seems like that all-alone writing doesn't count. That's the thought I have on my most cynical days, well gosh, I can't work on my manuscript because I need to blog instead! 

Sometimes I get so bogged down in all the things that are supposed to make me a writer besides, well, writing. (My friend Erin wrote a great blog post on this very thing the other day.) But I remembered last night. I remembered the crisp spark of having a sentence just flow out of you and find its place on the page, in the story. I remembered the quiet joy of plugging along, of noticing, that sense that slowly something is being sculpted, and that it is a story worth telling.

Because I do have a story. Did you know that? One I'm slowly plunking down on the page, one that I hope to share with you someday. A lot of it comes from that first year out of school, when I wrote blogs like this one and wondered how to find friends and a job and, y'know, a purpose. It's something that everyone goes through, I know, and sometimes I let myself slip into that place of fear, Your voice isn't important, people have told this story before, and can tell it way better than you. You can think of at least three people who can tell this story of transitional life better than you can... 

But then I hear voices like my friend Rosie's, and my friend Carrie's, and my parents' voices, and the encouraging folks in my workshops, and the voice inside myself that I try to keep bubbling at the top, all saying, No one can tell this story quite like you can. Your story is yours. So you tell it. 

And when those voices fill me, my heart, my brain, my fingers chant yes!, pushing through the darkness into story-truth-magic that I hope one day I can fully share with you. Who knows how or when - but for now, I'm enjoying the fresh flowers of ink that fall by my feet on this wondrous and weary road.

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