We’re told that the most important thing about writing is to have something to say. Which I completely agree with. Most of the time.
This post is about those other times. The times when I have nothing to say. And yet still suffer from a compulsion to say it.
And by “it” I mean nothing.
If you’re a writer, you know what I’m talking about.
It’s that hot-lava feeling that stirs from the depths of your being. Almost like when you have to pee, except that it comes from a higher place. Possibly your solar plexus but definitely not your bladder.
And the urge can come at any time. It starts as a tinkling of a thought with the biggest part – the part you haven’t uncovered yet – pushing against your every intention.
Why am I telling you this?
Because once upon a long time ago I was a young, single mother and writing saved me. (I am now an OLDER single mother – and writing continues to save me.)
In fact, writing is the one thing that has always been a constant in my life. And for that, I am grateful.
I’ve written through my insecurities. My fears. My self-esteem issues . . . Words have oozed out of my soul like puss out of the face of a teenager.
Writing consoles. Heals. Brings you to a better understanding of yourself and the world around you.
I’m not sure what I would have turned out to be if I wasn’t a writer but I do know this. I wouldn’t be me. And on that note, I believe it’s time to make a toast:
(Dear Muse, I’m going to walk into the kitchen now and it would be really cool if there was a bottle of wine waiting for me on the counter. Or vodka.)