I used to work with two then-budding writers who have since blossomed with their craft. What I remember most about them is that they couldn’t wait to get home so they could spend the evening writing. And they did. And they talked about it. And they each made their books happen. In fact I did some editing for them.
I don’t have that. Any of that. I don’t have that zeal to write every day. I don’t even think about writing every day. Today I’m forcing myself to write something by writing about how much I don’t necessarily like to write. Writing is a chore that I have to remind myself to do. The problem is…I love writing. I love to write.
I really love to write. I love it when the words seem to flow freely out of my fingers right onto the tablet screen. Words that my mind hasn’t consciously processed. Words that come together with a kind of majestic majesty or maybe majestic mystery and sometimes majestic magic. They come together in ways that assure me I often have little to do with their choice, their pedigree and their formation.
I really love to write when it seems I’m more the instrument, like the tablet, than the creator of the combinations that even excite me some days. I’m more the conduit that surrenders to a process over which I have no control. I’m the human instrument that plays on the digital instrument, in the same manner on which I’m being strummed like a well tuned banjo. I’m the woman who sits in the chair and looks at the words that appear on the screen and I compliment the source of them all.
Wow! I sometimes say, “that was good.”
I am utterly in awe of the Creator who put within me every thing I would ever need to be and do everything I would ever be and do for every scintilla of a second of my life on earth.
I stand in amazement of the moment by moment transformation that happens even in my attitude when I choose to surrender my butt to the chair, my fingers to the keyboard, my will to God’s Holy Ghost.
In a split second of time the stubborn resistance to writing melts into a hub of words that order themselves into phrases and sentences and paragraphs that explain, that touch, that tickle, that excite…that “story” themselves into the hearts of the reader. Including my reluctant self.