About Writing.

It's one of those nights I feel like I could write forever. Words are on the tips of my fingers, playfully sputtering about on the page. The thing is, I don't want to try too hard, at least in the beginning. If writing is a craft, it must be perfected through practice, not guardedness. Actually, that's the way I look at all creativity, and all of life. I can walk around things, I can wonder, and plan, and prepare, but over-planning takes the joy and spontaneity out of living, and of art. Expectations are so different than reality. Please don't think I'm talking about art as spewing, without editing. I believe in editing, in the choosing of words, and the learning of a craft, but I also believe the greatest learning comes from participation, from engaging in a task - whether playful or serious.

With me, you see, and I suspect with you as well, there are things that come naturally. I don't mean they come naturally in the sense that I can do those things easily, perfectly, or with skill, I just mean I am drawn to them. And writing is one of them. Words and print have been my comfort and coping throughout so much of life - both other people's words and my own. Sometimes I share my love of words with people, sometimes I don't. But now, so much of my perspective on life has changed. I had cancer this fall, and it has given me the strange gifts of motivation, clarity, and gratefulness. I go for a test in less than a month to see if it has come back or not. I feel old and young at the same time. I want to hug all of my family, and hide in fear. And along with my loved ones, writing has been at my side, something to absorb anxiety and confusion. And even if I throw out the jumble of pages I've scribbled on, and delete the various documents with random journal entries, there will always be more words.

Lucinda Williams says it so well:

Deep down within me words move in phrases
Frozen and still ‘til they decide
To melt and drip over the pages
Until that moment they live inside

My words enjoy the feel of the paper
Better than mingling with your consonants
Once they get going they never waver
And they slip in between your if, ands, and buts

When my words are hiding between the lines
Then I’m afraid they won’t hear me call
What if they fail me without a sign
What if they hardly surface at all

Screaming and throwing your weight around
My words choose knowledge over politics
You can’t kill my words, they know no bounds
My words are strong and they don’t make me sick

They still remain my only companion
Loyal and true to the very end
They’ll never ever completely abandon
Ever give up the paper and the pen