If not for the blog I would’ve been asleep hours ago. It is in a sense what I am here for–what I am alive to do. Create. The act of creation is so embedded into my being that if I don’t do it for any extended period of time then I feel like I am at odds with the universe. The absence of creation builds in me a type of sickness that can only be relieved by creation. Perhaps that is why I am so drawn to story. I love to see what others have created, so that I don’t feel alone in this… craving. It is not even a passion. The word is too small to contain it. When I am fully involved in a story I move around. I step away from the screen and walk around my house thinking about the characters and imagining being there beside them. I often act it out. I consider a particular walk or way of being or turn of phrase and try to carry it off myself. They are me in the fashion that all creatures of the universe are connected. I am closer to them, because I am linked into them and telling their story.
I did not create them. Not entirely.
I know and know of a handful of writers who won’t see that as a crazy thing to say, but as the absolute truth of one. I used to be a mentor to a writer who knew how to touch that creative force and I follow a writer whose hands are shoulder deep in the stream of it. When people call writing a gift, this is what they are talking about without even knowing they are.
In the intervening years between now and my first sentence I’ve found many other pleasures that steal me away from the words. None, save the touch of my lover, satisfy me so as a truly well formed sentence. As for her touch, it brings me ever closer to the page.
The page is where I am meant to dwell. So I will.