One more day of work and I am off for a month. Exhaustion is at its high point and still, I feel the need to write. Writing has become a way to relax, and cope. It has become a sedative and an elixir. When I am happy I yearn to write and when my spirits are low I need to write.
Identifying as a writer is a big step. When writing becomes the air we breathe and the very thing we cling to even when we are exhausted we are writers. We are the word painters of human emotion and suffering. The storytellers and secret keepers.
I am not sure when the writer emerged I think that it happened slowly. I have always wanted to be a ” writer” yet wanting and becoming and being are different things. The emergence of self-identifying as a writer was a death of sorts.
Today I can write from the depth of my soul and it isn’t always pretty.
I hold nothing back and offer no apologies.
While pausing at the end of my hurried day I feel waves creep up.
The waves are sadness. I am struggling alone. I feel like I am too young to be alone and old enough to not have many potential suitors in my age category. As my friends take off with their still young families and attend graduations and weddings I am here alone with my cat thinking about my single status and wishing that the “someone” who I have been writing about would “appear”.
My aching heart has called me to create and write a fictional character who is my ideal partner. I wonder whether he could be out there. Is he only alive in the pages of my book?
While writing, I realize that this love and life that I am creating could be a possibility and this scares me almost as much as self-identifying as a writer.
We, humans, are curious and strange creatures. We have defence mechanisms and coping strategies to deal with our pain As a writer I have taken this a step further and created fiction. Perhaps If I can write it out he might exist I say to myself silently. In my mind, I the writer have become a co-creator with the creator weaving fact and fiction and hoping and praying I can breathe life into my words and my book.
I don’t know what I want more in life to write or meet this creation I have created. This fictional man has become nearly real at least in my imagination. So dear friends here it is. The birth of a writer might be a dangerous thing. There is no going back and so forward I meander and write on with gentle curiosity.
I am alive and so you are you. We can begin to rewrite our stories This is the only thing I know to be true.
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