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.
6 comments:
"Working too much at making a living and not enough at doing the living..."--
Amen.
:)
From your writing here I'd say you're still able to open. It's not too late.
"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."
Uh...whattya' call that, Lady?
Your gift can't be squelched. Even when you talk of its squelching!
Ditto Amber, Deb and Michelle!
Sounds like we're in similar places. Awoke with the urge to write, but believe I can't write as well as i once did.
I know of what you speak but could not have worded it so beautifully. Ditto Carrie, Amber, Deb and Michelle!
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