I write and I pound the keys and sometimes I think my head will explode from all the conversations whirring around inside. The voices shout and say, “You have to get this down!” I wait, impatiently for the computer to respond to my keystrokes, on to the next thought before I can capture it in letters.
I used to write just for me. I filled journals with blotchy ink and tears. I wrote what my heart was bleeding, the emotions, the sights the sounds. Now, it is a greater part of life. I write for an audience of very few, but they respond and drive my need to continue on the public vein, rather than releasing my inner-most furies.
I read the words of others and am humbled. I live for the quiet moments I can explore how another pieces the jumbles of thoughts in their minds into a current that carries me away from own my inner chaos. They create worlds and carve pointed thoughts into opinions. They have the brush to paint lives. I merely try to bring order to mine.
Perhaps I am not so different from my meager followers. Don’t we all wish to capture and understand the things in our lives that may or may not have meaning? Who wouldn’t take a chance at going back to the exact day in their life five, ten or fifty years ago. To see their own innocence, to read the younger’s thoughts?
Wilson brought me a book from his myriad collection of apple boxes full of books. It is a corporate journal, chronicling a business’s Executive Committee meetings from 1929. I have yet to decipher what the business was, but the minutes of the meetings are all carefully recorded in elegant scrip with a fountain pen.
I found a final entry on July 24th. Apparently the scheduled May 1st meeting at 7:30pm did not occur. I wonder why?
Someone, writing it down for a record in time. Yes, that is what writers do. Chronicle the minutia to make the rest of us wonder at the why. Treasure Island was published in 1883. Tom Sawyer was published in 1876. For Whom The Bell Tolls was published in 1940. These are words that have stood the test of time. Stories that prevail.
The other night on the way home from work I made the turn onto my road, and noticed a paperback book caught in the spring-runoff in the ditch. It was raining, but I considered for a moment, stopping to rescue it.
The next day as I walked Alice down the road, the mud splattered novel caught my attention again. It was missing a chunk of pages, lodged under a nearby stick. I vowed to pick it up on our way home.
The cover stopped me in my tracks as I pondered, not just this one copy, but the author’s original thoughts and words that flowed to create it. I’ve heard of Barbara Delinsky, know she is a “New York Times” best-selling author, but have not read one word she’s written. Now fate has put this book in my life. Fulfillment, now isn’t that perfect for what we are all seeking or perhaps seeking to identify. The tag line was a bit cheesy “She thought she knew what she wanted. But fate had other ideas.” Hmm, don’t see this becoming a block buster movie anytime soon. So who does buy millions of copies of serial romance novel writing?
Regardless, it is a book. It is the printed representation of an author’s work. It was important enough to be reprinted in other languages and marketed by the publisher, Mira Books, to every airport bookstore. It should not have found its end amid the mud and last years leaves.
The voices return and I see that the computer has caught up with my thoughts. Just Write!