The problem with writing. It is hard work. It means digging up stuff you didn't want to deal with anymore. You're tired. If you could just pull back the covers, get out of bed . . . She was an automaton, cynical, on autopilot. She vetoed the journey of enlightenment and self-awareness. Why bother? But wait. Maybe if there were others to help . . . a community of kindred spirits.
This morning at Wellington Square we read to each other the history of our writing lives. "Writing is a mirror in which I meet myself," Ginger wrote.
"There is a lightness of spirit when I write," Pat wrote. "I explore my imagination."
We are finding our voice.
Here's the rub. The outside world - worse, our family - would have us stay silent. You are too outspoken for a girl! The world doesn't need another book, a husband says. Why are you writing, a daughter demands? What could you possibly have to to say, a son asks?
Writing is a ribbon of light weaving through murky water. It is a saunter on a warm summer day. It is a trek up a mountainside. It is as necessary as the air we breathe.
As Trish said today, "I have a right to write."
