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."
1 comment:
Writers and writing must not appear tortured. Writers must crawl on their hands and knees through tunnel-like passages searching for the right words and ideas. Writers can sit up straight, but they must bend their fingers to type on a keyboard. Writers must hold to a pencil or pen in their hands and then move them altogether. Writers must use all the right muscle groups to achieve a smooth, easy flow. Writers spill alot of letters on many sheets of paper. Writers must know that both the heart and the brain are muscles. Writers are sloppy. Writers get sleepy.
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