From the moment I learned to form words on paper, I turned to the page whenever I had heavy things to deal with, writing diary/journal entries, letters that I might or might not deliver, and poetry.
In that sense, writing is thinking for me--meditation, reflection, analysis. I can’t NOT write, so despite all the turmoil of this past year, I’ve continued to write.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve written more fiction, escaping into other worlds and hashing out my issues a bit more indirectly through characters and plotlines. Often, it’s only when I read the story later that I can spot what was troubling me when I wrote it. It’s a game my subconscious and I play with each other, I suppose.
This past year has taught me so many things. It taught me empathy. It made me realize that I was ok not being out there, that being in my cozy home with my life partner and crazy animals was perfectly fine. Yet, I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by obvious cruelty and hate. Overwhelmed by seeing so much apathy. Overwhelmed by feeling powerless to help. Overwhelmed by my own privilege and ignorance. So, I sat in it. I sat in the overwhelm. I meditated on the overwhelm. I let it change me. And as a result, it changed my words. Slowly the writing was my escape, my passion, my security, and it made me feel like it’s going to be ok. I put all of the overwhelmness into my words, I wrote furiously and full of passion.
I now have to learn all over again about patience. My encouraging, knowledgeable editor is down with an illness, and she has not been able to complete my editing as soon as I had hoped. So I sit and ponder. I work on the second book, I work on books that stare me in the face saying “write me”. I help other creative writers through Beta reading and editing, jealous that I can’t edit my own because it’s already perfect in my heart.
See you in the pages…