How many words does it take to get the writer’s message across? Could it be one, two, what about three? The message that usually comes across in those three words packs a loving punch. What if it took four, or five, even six? Then we find ourselves mid-sentence, searching for something that seems like a conundrum of conviction. Then comes the old lucky number seven, followed by eight, next to nine, which is before the perfection of the number ten, and if you times that by itself then the number of words written is exactly one hundred striking, simple words.
Why did I decide to start writing again in my ripe old age? I will answer that question after I fill you in on the details of my self-scripted past. When I was in my early twenties, there was a girl who snuck up on my heart and took it over. She was my best friend and I sometimes wonder if she did with intention or if it was just the genuine beauty that surrounds her that swallowed me whole. Either way it was a rocky road filled with juvenile jealousy and adolescent aspirations. In the tumultuous relationship I fell head over heels in love with her through the poetic side of me. I started writing every moment that time would hand me. As we meandered through the phases of unconditional love, I began to understand that she was my muse. Then as most great things do, it ended, with it so did my writing. Over the past fifteen years I have written here and there but nothing ever felt like it held any air beneath it. I just couldn’t find the spirit in my words that once felt like they belonged; the bottom line is, the muse went missing.
Then I read Hemingway’s “A Farewell To Arms” last November. It reawakened something in my long-dormant inspired dream and lit the so-called fire under my ass. It prompted me to start writing again with the seamless beauty that comes from the individual circumstances that are agonizing, heart rendering, and full of sorrow. In the depths of agony rises the challenge to spill those beautiful words for the world to hear. I am also aware that there is also a lighter side, full of those happy, heart thumping moments, and an ecstatic energy that can translate into gorgeous prose. What I have gathered through it all is that my writing seems to evolve into pure and unabridged beauty when the muse goes missing. I have also learned that no matter how much it hurts, you have to tell the truth. You have to be honest with your words; anything else would be foolish towards yourself and what’s more important than that, is not to fool your audience.
The solitude of writing silences my ego and allows the genuineness within me to take over. I guess you could say writing releases me from myself. After all, it is my Atrium of Expression.