I started writing again last week. Writing outside of this space. Writing outside of my thesis. Writing outside of freelance articles and deadlines. I started writing. At first it was difficult. Finding words seemed like a chore. Part of the writing was procrastination, a to do list so long and a mind that I couldn’t quiet. But I found myself in an unusual moment of silence, wrapped in a dark woolen blanket warmed only by the late autumn sun. I found myself with a pen in my hand and an old journal, dug up from the bottom of a box.
In the journal was the beginnings of a novel I almost wrote many years ago. A novel I lost with the crash of a computer. All I have left are the initial notes. Nothing more than hundreds of broken sentences, stories that wove fiction with memoir, balancing the fine line between ego and creation. I found myself writing new sentences, forming new stories.
Maybe one day that story will come out again, in its new form, with a new perspective. A novel that I know one day I will write… it will never be the novel that it was, but instead a version of it. There is a delicate honesty in fiction, a medium I used to write in a lot, a medium that I haven’t given myself the luxury to explore for many years.
To write. There is such freedom in it. To get lost in the words for no purpose other than to write them on the page. Not for others to read, but just because the words need to be written.
Soon we will have time again, and freedom too… the words will flow more easily then, I know. What I do not know is what they will want to say… the anticipation is perhaps one of the great joys of being a writer. The anticipation of words that you know are playing in the shadows, not yet written… I can’t help but wonder what they will say.