About that...

There are things I cherish about writing. There are things I detest. Then again, that is life, isn't it? A comparison of what we love, what fuels us, what sends us out into the wide abyss of the world with another hope, another try, another idea and the opposing side of our fears, our dislikes, our prideful, hateful, shunning natures warring within the same body, the same mind, the same soul.

I find myself always thinking about this thing I do, this thing I am, actually. I can never seem to let it rest, to let it fade quietly into the backdrop of my task list. It is always there, lurking, desiring to be noticed, pounding at my brain, itching at the tips of my fingers for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours at the keyboard.

The mind of a writer is a tortured, tangled basket of ideas, like balls of yarn come half undone. So many strands going this way and that, one story twisting into another, plots threaded throughout and swirling below what can be readily seen.

My job is to sit with that basket, to patiently follow the strands, while I untangle the stories woven for me out of the thin and misty atmosphere of my darkest thoughts. I would tell you it's tedious, but that would be a lie. I would tell you it's difficult, but that too isn't entirely true. I can only tell you that the mysterious things that slink out of my head and onto the page consume me the same way a basket of tangled string does; the task seems never-ending, yet oddly calming. When one ball is sorted and stacked neatly to the side, I am relieved yet there is always another waiting...

Photo Courtesy of Creative Commons