A Writing Relationship

The most magnificent silence falls across my world when I’m writing something good. It has to be good. If not, I can hear the mosquito across the room plotting his attack on my left thigh or the car two blocks away running over the trash can somebody forgot to bring in after work.

It’s unbelievable, really. It’s like I have Spidey senses when I write crap. But it does make sense in a way. When you’re reading awful writing you want any and all excuses not to pay attention. When you’re writing awful crap, your mind is trying to stop you from the head on collision you’re about to cause with the desktop on your lap or that pen you keep gnawing on. It could be fatal. You never know how much of your little writer’s soul will die when you write something horrific. So, of course, your mind tries to keep you from writing it. It’s obnoxious because you know how terrible it all is, but at the same time you just want to write. Just let me write, mind! Let me get through this tragedy, shake it off, and begin again. Ugh, I am so terrible at rambling. I mean, I’m great at it. That’s the problem.

This post wasn’t supposed to be about bad writing. It was supposed to be about that Nirvana-esque bliss that only appears in the middle of the night or during a downpour thunderstorm. That time when loneliness is everywhere but in the best way. Only when you’re lonely can you really hear those quiet stories in your head waiting to get out. They’re patient, unlike those awful stories mentioned above. Those are the ones that scream until you get them down on paper, and then once they’re down they’re like, “Okay, thanks, bye!” You pray they’re one night stands that will never enter your life again. But those quiet stories, the ones in the back of your mind, growing into a part of your soul as they wait for the right moment to burst through your finger tips and on to the page. Those are the stories that remind you why you’re a writer. They’re the ones that remind you what love is. Because it’s true. Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not boast or brag. It doesn’t make you write shit just for the sake of writing. It lets you discover yourself, and it, over time. It dances in your head to a song you’re compose while it dances. It’s yours and only yours until you choose to share it. And when you do share it, that silent loneliness becomes more supportive than any person ever has been.

Writing what’s inside of you. Writing what you’ve grown from a thought to a possibility to a story to a tangible piece of soul. It is a beauty born in darkness and silence. And it is your love. And you are its life.


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