I am working hard. I struggle daily. If my hands do not meet a keyboard or put pen to paper, I battle with my writing, my craft, in my mind.
There are not enough hours in the day. The world is my distraction; and my inspiration, the same. If only to have a ticker-tape flooding from my ears – as I am CONSTANTLY writing, working, thinking, feeling. Listening to the words unfold in my mind like a quilt – waiting for me to wrap up in them and warm myself with their unique pattern and design. Words are the calico of my life.
I am sneaky. I hide my notebooks, shut down the screen, and close off my betrayals from the world. I should be grading. I should be cleaning. I should be reading, washing, anything but writing. But, if I do not write, I betray myself.
I punish myself by withholding my words. When the water is high and my legs are weary from treading in place, I forbid it. I cannot write until I am productive. Duties first, indulgences last.
But then, I dare imagine the day when my duty will be to write. Will my feelings change? Will I still desire it? Still lose myself to the world within the cool white of a blank page?
And, what of the readers? Will they lose themselves to the world within the black ink on my page? Will the font, for them as for me, dissolve into the colorful world my letters write?
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