Must I contemplate whether my lack of active writing contributes to my doldrums? I believe so. I have been wallowing in stagnancy recently. This question, as all important questions do to me, flashed in my heart and felt right. Really right.
What do I know about writing? The naked truth is this: More than music, more than family, more than verbal expressions of my faith, my writing gives me succor. I know I’m neither an expert nor do I appeal to all people in my craft; however, I feel better when I write. I feel more alive, more vivid, more animated, more valuable. In writing, like in visual art, my written craft is permanent-ish. As one who had paintings burn during a gallery exhibit limited to my work along, I can say firsthand that this is not always the case. First-person, first-hand. Without writing, I am arid and desolate. The blank page is my canvas. I simply color it my way. Yes, I’m still at the level of scrawled crayons and fingerpaints, but I will continue on my path toward fulfillment and excellence.
My dream? To know that I can sit in my studio and write all day long without financial worries, family concerns, social obligations. To say, without fear of repercussions, exactly what is on my mind and in my heart to say. This alone would be a huge change for me.
Perhaps, once before I die, I will have written something truly satisfying and delicious; something I can dreamily savor until the books of the Akashic Record are my library.