I don’t know how to write
That I honestly don’t know is something I always kept close to my chest. But no more.
Because…I write. I write and write. I just do it. Only occasionally do I pause to search for the right word. Only some of my pieces are edited for more than a basic spelling and grammar check.
Not all is calm sailing on a river of flow, mind. Poetry, for example, takes me far longer to write. Because I must wait for the right words to arrive, and for the right order to arrive too.
Even still, little conscious thought is involved…my muse doesn’t even have the decency to whisper to my inner ear. She just grabs control of my fingers and writes away. Writing seems to come second only to breathing, for me.
If that sounds a lot like magic…that’s because it feels a lot like magic too.
I’d urge you not to envy me, though. Yes, the writing flows. Flows easily, most days. And in that I am massively blessed and freely admit that.
But, I don’t know what makes me tick. I don’t know how I flow. Not the first clue. I know I have a wide vocabulary from reading voraciously. That makes sense. I don’t know, though, how that translates to sentences that string themselves together seemingly without my help.
That’s more than a little terrifying.
Because what if…oh what if…the words disappear? What if I suddenly lose my flow? Without it, I’d be helpless. And I wouldn’t know how to get it back.
I’d no longer be a writer. I’d no longer be the Frenetic Scribbler.
Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. I hope they don’t. I need my words. Losing them would be like having my throat torn out. That makes me fearful.
But for now, I write. And write. Fingers flying, brain dragged along for the ride. Through me, the Muse sings.
Perhaps one day I’ll even understand how it happens.
