I opened one of my old stories last night, one I wrote when I was working on being a Writer instead of working as a writer/editor/word flak.
My first impulse is to say I don't remember how to write like that, but the truth is, I never knew. All I did was open myself to it and wait. It's more accurate to say, I no longer remember how to open myself to the gift.
I do remember how it feels. I remember the pulse of energy, the rush of being pulled into and through myself by something larger and stronger and wiser. I remember electric prickles when something beautiful arrives on the screen, something for which I am the conduit but not exactly the creator. I remember the deep blue surprise and the blood red joy.
Working too much at making a living and not enough at doing the living has faded the colors of my life. I long for that rush, that connection. I long to see a story emerge from the great beyond.
The answer, of course, is to make the time. My acceptance comes and goes, but the giver never falters.