Writers, poets, musicians and artists all know this, I think, but I write to express my feelings to and for myself. I share it on the blog to find some validation and to give others encouragement, so I’ll share this today.
I’m riding the wave. The wave is when the work in progress is fully comprehended and effortlessly reached, providing a calming high. I’m buoyant and yet introspective, but I don’t mind being like that because I’m happy. Writing is going great. It’s constantly with me but I see that as a beautiful, wonderful state.
My friends probably wonder about my absence. I haven’t been out for beers for over a week. My wife probably thinks I’m losing some cognitive functions because I drive to the wrong place. I can’t and don’t explain that I’m still writing in my head. The story is so rich and real, I don’t want to disturb it, but just write and write. I also know that my enthusiastic descriptions of what I’m doing, what’s going on with me, and what’s happening in the novel tends to create an EGO state for her – eyes glazing over. Only other creative people, involved in their own realms of endeavor, can truly understand. I get that. It shades my existence with loneliness because I can’t share with all these others, these non-writers, non-musicians, non-artists and non-poets. They just don’t seem to get it. But then, I’m not social, so I don’t hunger with the urge to socialize, and it amuses me to watch others engage in that drive.
There are other drives I don’t have that others display. Hunting, dancing, hobbies, making money. Thinking about them and striving to gather insights into those activities and their influences on the people and societies is part of my writing enjoyment.
It’s been a long ride on this wave. I wonder when it’s going to break, so I’ve resisted writing about it, fearful my mentioning it will jinx it. Even as I finished writing this and I read it again, I think, do I really want to put this out there? This wave is so strong, I’m still with Handley on the bridge, peering over her shoulder and spying on her thoughts and actions, and contemplating what’s happening with Pram, Richard and Brett. This wave is strong.
Oh, the coffee is drained. Two thousand words have been written and edited, and ninety minutes have elapsed. A weather storm is approaching so there are real existence matters to attend. Selfishly, I hope we don’t have a power outage, that the storm isn’t strong, because I don’t want the wave to break. I know how shallow that seems, that in this world of life and death, I’m thinking of myself and my writing. I laugh at myself, mocking my priorities.
But of course I hope others safely survive, that the damages aren’t too great, that when they are great, people are able to rebuild and continue on. And of course, I understand, death is a natural part of life. Yet, even in those wishes, hopes, and acceptance, the writer within thinks of the scenes, emotions and dialogue, and imagines the emerging stories….
Writing really is a sickness.
But it’s such a beautiful thing.