What a Writer Wants

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

Have you ever wondered what it takes to love a writer? It all starts with knowing what we want... Here's a short list of my desires:

• A writer wants to connect. When I sit to write, I do so as one speaking to a confessor, a confidant sworn to secrecy. I want you to understand and even resonate with what I am saying. I want to let you know and in turn, know myself, that we are not alone. Emotions and perspectives are unique but the same in so many ways. I am revealing myself to you.
• A writer wants to rant. Most of what I write I am dealing with on some level. That may alarm you if you have read any of my books or my shorts. That's okay. Be alarmed. A writer's rant, I can almost guarantee, means something completely different than you think it does. 
• A writer craves details. I am completely irritated and undone when I get the short answer. "What did you think of the book?" "It was good." Good? Seriously? What did it make you feel? Did it teach you anything? Don't tell me it was good! Tell me it was spectacular, it was horrifyingly boring, it was rancid. Description is a meal and words are the seasonings - FEED ME!
• A writer longs for truth. Whether in research or honest word choice or description of the hard scenes, a writer is searching out the truth of what they write. There is no worse feeling than reading something you know is not true. It is a slap in the face of your audience if you don't at least attempt knowledge of what you speak. Respect of their time is always at the top of my list.
• A writer wants quiet. This is a hard one for me to describe. Anyone that knows me as that other person, knows that I am less than a brooding, solitary soul. Still, in my writing life I have to have a sense of serenity. I need a quiet place, a few hours of my day unassailed by the noise of life: no television, no radio or music, no interruption to the process of writing. The noise in my head alone is so loud it often takes me days to quiet enough to get even a few words on the page. I have to have that stillness to make sense out of the static energy in my cluttered mind.
• A writer wants release. When I write, if I am paying close attention, concentrating on word choice and being demanding with my concepts, it is like having amazing sex. There... I said it. Any writer who tells you otherwise has either never had great sex or is lying to you.  When I put in the work, decide selfishly I will not stop until I am done, I feel as spent, as satisfied, as gloriously loved and attractive as I do after a naughty romp in the sack. It opens up my whole world to more! I am energized, confident and contented... I'm pretty sure I glow. That release of my story onto the page clears my head and allows me to move on with my day. If I am honest, that same release also keeps me coming back for more, because - well... Isn't it obvious?
• A writer wants stimulation. (No I'm not all about the sex today...) The death knell to any sort of creative juice I have is to sit stagnant, to let routine rule my life. I have begun to travel in my aged years (wink, I'm not all that old), and in those adventures have come to realize it fuels my writing mojo. The more I see, the more my mind opens up to the possibilities. The more I stretch my boundaries the more my mind stretches its imaginings. When I cannot travel, just a trip into a cafe where I can sit and observe, a little darkened bar in the middle of the day, a park bench under a canopy of trees... All of these become fodder for the page.
• A writer craves appreciation. There is nothing more heady than to be told someone is waiting for you to write another story, tell another tale, create another character. To be lauded by those who read my stories is a drug as addictive as heroine and the cravings can become destructive, especially when I have gone dry. If you know a writer in your midst, if you admire a blogger you lurk but never comment on, let them know you appreciate them. It may give them the courage they need to try a new character, to re-edit their last short, to finish!

You Can't Take It Back (Fiction, Long Post)

They stood facing each other, the air thick around them, crackling with tension. They stood and stared. Her chest heaved, up and down, her arms slack at her sides, her mind a whir of confusion and hurt. She was finding it hard to breathe. The silence rushed in on her, filling her ears like rushing water, the beat of her heart pounding loudly against the void. The air seared her lungs and burned all the way down to her soul. She felt the ache in her heart squeeze hard at her chest. The heat that had powered their argument was cooling quickly and she felt the rise of bumps along her arms and legs.

She watched as his eyes registered regret, then stubborn resolution; he didn’t look away. She continued to stare, to search his weathered features, to try to recognize the man she’d married. The boyishness was long gone, vanished with his compassion for her. Somewhere along the road they had traveled that young man had been replaced with greying hair at his temples, haggard lines on his cheeks and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. At this moment he was no longer someone she recognized. She let her gaze fall to his clenched fists, his expanded waistline, his faded jeans. When had he left her? Had she pushed him away? Was this somehow her fault?

Her ears were still ringing with the words. She drug her eyes back to his face, searching for any sign of a coming apology. There was none. She held her breath for short bursts, knowing each time she released the air and took another it might be the one that sent her sobbing. She vowed she wouldn’t do that yet, not here, not in his presence. Her pride wouldn’t let it happen where he could watch.

She forced a small, tight smile and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She tried to force her mind to make sense of what he’d said. What exactly had he said? Could she recall the words, or only the pain? The sounds of them, swift and sharp, had stuck to her like darts, stinging and hurtful. She wanted to pluck them out, throw them to the floor, tell him to say it again, but her request stayed walled behind a fortress of teeth and lips. If she unclenched her jaw and tried to speak she would surely crumble.

A shiver slunk down her spine, her gut wrenched painfully and she fought the urge to vomit. Only now did his face spark a sliver of concern. He extended his arm to reach for her. She turned, denying him any touch.

“Don’t,” she managed through the grind of her jaw.

“I-“

“You’ve said enough.” It was those few words that broke the dam on her tears. They ran down her cheeks, hot and salty. She swiped quick at her face with the back of her hand and turned to walk away, “I have work to do.”

He spun her around by her arm so that she had to work to maintain her balance. She stared at his hand on her skin, tight enough to push flesh through the gaps, until he let her go. The print of his hand on her remained, pink against pale. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She rubbed her arm where he had touched her, “No. You meant it, or you wouldn’t have said it. We always mean the things we say, whether we should say them or not.” Her voice was quiet, deliberate, cool.

She stared at the floor, silence yawning lazily between them now. She was suddenly exhausted, bone tired and mentally weary. Although she struggled to move, she felt an incredible lightness; a floating, twisting, bobbing along that should have caused her alarm. She couldn’t bring herself to register the angst. She was drained. She wished she could be washed away with the tide she drifted on now; to be sucked out to oblivion would be less painful.

She moved on unsteady feet back to the table and sank heavily into her chair.

“I am sorry.”

“Me too,” she forced herself to look back into those eyes. “Is it enough? Is being ‘sorry’ enough?”

He reached for his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He met her gaze as he placed his hat back on his head, “I don’t know.”

He searched her face, his grey eyes flicking along her features. What was he seeing? Her age? The woman she once was? Did he find what he was looking for? He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. For only a moment he hesitated and then was gone, pulling the latch home with a click.

“Me neither,” she whispered as the tears cascaded down her face unfettered.

Photo Credit: Creative Commons