Writing is the inhaled essence of life that sweeps me along the currents of my everyday existence, without it, I am less than who the universe meant me to be when my unformed clay was being molded in the inner sanctum of my mother's womb. I write because I live and I live because I write.
In the years since my father first gave me the pen, I have written short stories, prose, poems, a play or two, and a children's book. I have written newsletters, marketing materials, engaged in copywriting, wrote some articles, always with the pen in hand. The art is what makes my heart skip along with unblemished glee like my daughters doing the happy dance.
The other day as I sat starring at the hungry vastness of the blank screen, working out ideas for my character, Kambridge, I realized that everything in my life has led me to this moment. Writing is the craft, publishing is the business. Finally, I had that ah-ha moment, I saw a use for my M.B.A. in marketing.
One of the things that does frustrate me about this process is that it requires patience. Even at 45, I can not say I am brimming over with that virtue, much like a kid jumping up and down demanding their mama's attention, I am like that with my writing. All of us creative types are a bit like that inner Id, that inner two year old - me!Me! ME! See ME! READ ME! The maturity in me says to step back, inhale deeply, take a moment, and know that since everything in the cosmos has lined up to make my spirit like the ink on parchment, it will happen. I am still young and after having lived, like Toni Morrison, I finally have something to say worthwhile.
Writing warms my marrow even as the cold wind whips around outside and makes my bones brittle. It keeps my heart beating and my soul searching. It has been this quest that keeps me with journals, pens, and paper of different color.