The writers life is not a choice! Not really. It is a must beyond a life style, which implies choice, but a passion that drives life on for anyone who ever understood that words are alive, and ideas the true countries we live in…
Sometimes we might not write for weeks, months or even years at the time, but when the demons are after us, when the dragon offers a ride, there is no salvation: novels need to be written, poems cited and hard thoughts be faced, like tigers.
Contemplation, solitude, and inspiration are all necessary for those strange castles in the air we writers need to enter to draw from the ether, to hear what needs to be said, to write down with our tears.
Writing in company is certainly possible, but to reach into the depth of despair and wisdom and to come forth with treasure, with insights and thoughts as sharp as swords we usually need to be alone.
So we writers are inspired by suffering, ours, others or the common shared pains, which brings us to this necessary solitude to ponder.
And why do we complain?
It does not matter if we do or not, if we like it or not. We still write, at least we wish we would. All the while we remember how it was last year when we wrote that novel, and how we loved catching those phrases, like elusive butterflies. If we chose this or not, once bitten by the tiger, we writers have to hide in our holes and shun the world to hone that craft, to get those blisters and sweat that blood.
Oh, what do we have to suffer, to investigate and express? And to express the right way. A particular way. A way that hits the sweet spot, to find the right flavour, the perfect tone, an orgasm of language and words, is the way to catch that inner image, to make it accessible to others. Or else we’ll get more grey hair, or lose the ones we’re still holding onto for dear life.
Being a writer is, without a doubt, functioning like an antenna, a translator, and sometimes these foreign languages of the cosmos elude us even though we strain. We search the inner, quiet and lonely darkness, and we do it without promise for rewards, trophies, or publishing contracts, but we do it because we must and despite the risk of meeting our inner lost horrors. And nothing else.
Because once in a while, the monsters sleep and fairies visit to awaken a legend. Then truth and dreams dance, and from those depths real stories grow.
Suddenly it dawns on us. Revelation strikes like lightning!
We find the right words. We swim with their flow, as their wild stream takes us, away, away. And we get gladly carried to the unknown, where, my friend who might write or not, it’s better than anywhere. Not anywhere in the universe.
When we are chosen for an idea, to receive it like an antenna and translate it into visible ink, we are no lesser than gods. We create, we are messengers and all creation at once.
And for that, my friend all suffering was worth going through for. All darkness and solitude forgotten, we march on with swollen chests, knowing we are The One. And so another writer is born.
We were witness to life itself, with its death and birth falling and rising in cosmic corners. No wisdom is foreign to us, no frequency we cannot hear. No fear, no monsters can catch us like a disease… until they do.
We share too soon the message, and the messenger gets killed.
The messenger is human and bleeds. Bleeds pride.
Then the river’s speed slowly ebbs, comes to a painful halt and ordinary sucks us back into reality where we have to fit in. Like all the others.
We have to make a living. Care for the children, please a boss.
We are The One.
From now on we’re always on the prowl, on the lookout, ready to be pounced at by truth, by dangerous ideas, by our own courage.
And once tasted the ambrosia, once felt the thrill of our immortality we’re doomed and addicted. We can’t wait to be alone and allow ourselves to listen once more, to face the tiger hidden on empty pages…
…And that, my friend, is the circle of life for a writer.
If we admit it or not, we can hardly wait to ride the next wave, to catch that stormy river again. Even with those unfinished manuscripts in the drawer, and those two finished novels no one has ever read. We still want to go again.
Sure, we might drown, get bashed up and suffer, sure. Or we might come out on top. With some wisdom and another story worth telling. Who knows?
That thrill and that chase keeps us breathing, keeps us writing and searching. It reminds us that we are The One, immortal; and sometimes, rarely, just a bit less. Almost human.