Writing really, truly, is a creative and nearly magical process. Even in writing works of non-fiction, there is this place the creator must be: In the head. The mind becomes a block of words. Words that must capture what is funneling through the writer’s mind – thus depositing in as much as a transparent, and articulate flow of intention as possible – into the reader’s mind.
All writers know this. But the thing about writing, is that ‘getting there’ to that place of magical depositing, is the most difficult and frustrating process of writing. Because once you are there, the words take on this wonderful world of their own. Almost as if the words don’t need the writer anymore.
I wish I could be there more often. I wish I could get out of my head, and let the flow of creativity flow through my body, where it would then circle around back and dump all that colorful and wonderful world of magic that has ceased to exist into my empty mind.
But the truth is, I’ve needed to empty my mind. A mental hibernation of sorts was called for in order to get me here; writing this piece about not being there. And so I wait. I wait for the warmth of words, and the fire in the belly, that will expose them and order them into a semblance of story – a perfect chaos of magical ironies, and a hot mess of emotions that will spur me to keep tapping on these keys.
So until then folks… keep writing, reading, and writing until you find yourself again, should you be in a similar place.