I could make all sorts of word associations here regarding the mirrored surface of a writer’s soul. I could suggest that we reflect the world back at the world, and that this is why people both love and hate novelists. I could play with the idea of refraction and suggest to you that it is the fractured nature of our psyche that makes us shine just that little bit brighter than the average person. I could, but I won’t.
What I really mean is that we think,
It’s an occupational hazard for a writer. Heck, we would be thinking if we weren’t writing, but we choose to exorcise our demons in ink, and really the world should be grateful that we are so easily pacified, because we have such a lot to say. We express ourselves silently and with extreme force. It’s who we are. It is also why writers who aren’t writing tear themselves apart. We pull everything apart to look at the workings, and if that energy isn’t directed outwards then there is only one other place for it to go.
Writers need to write, we should write and we have to write.
There are words. They curl and tumble through time and space, through nebulae and dark stars, teardrops and sea mist, in search of a poet. They search diligently and completely and patiently until they find the one person who can open the universe and let them pour onto the page. They don’t care if the poet has studied or if he is important. They don’t care if he is a he. Their only desire is to flow into being. Time is without consequence. These remnants of the creation seek a creator to speak them into life and when they find their creator they are without mercy, they jostle and push for attention and compel him into action. They are ambivalent about whether the poet writes poetry or paints a story, creation seeks a creator, and the page is more patient than a person. Eventually they will fulfil their purpose and reach the heart they are seeking. And when they are shared, then they grow another poet, who will listen for the words and open the universe to allow them to flow onto the page. It is a mystery of being that the words which come to a poet are often not for the poet, in fact he doubts their necessity or credibility or viability until he accepts their need to be and his need to allow them to be. Then, there is peace and there are words which tumble through time and space…