Is writing. No need to wax poetic or beat around the bush. I just wanted to mention how much I love the irony. It’s a humorous irony, at that.
Anything that turns life into the feeling of being a blessed child of a benevolent universe, singing happy songs at the top of your lungs and pounding out pages befitting a creative genius, or, just feeling like that for one amazing, glorious moment, is a lucky, lucky thing.
Happy down Query Road? Worth a King’s ransom. Two Kings’ ransoms. The whole point of it in the first place. Writing. Creating. Flow. Creating and changing worlds.
So, I chugged the antidote yesterday, turning to writing as the cure for rejected writing, and when I realized what was happening, I was “saved”. From myself. I felt in tune, again, with that wonderful, hard-earned fact: I am a writer. I’m a writer, again. And I decide what that means, you know, and it has nothing to do with publishing.
It’s a calming, anchoring realization.
And it becomes an important question: if you were a writer who wanted to be published, would you continue to be a writer who wasn’t or couldn’t?
Going first, I’d have to say YES. Maybe throwing a few private tantrums from time to time, but the overall truth is that writing isn’t a choice, it just is; it just has to, is part of you, befalls you, chooses you. You can’t help it. That’s writing.
It’s wonderful, crazy and magical, just as it should be.
sometimes the best maps
are the ones thrown out the window,
throwing out the worry as well,
letting go and not asking why or where,
mindful to enjoy the ride,
buckled in and flying at the same time.
Might as well make the best of it, you lucky writer, you. And I’m grateful there are so many of us, to bolster each other’s spirits during the sometimes-bumpier ride of Query Road.