Magical, delightful, surprising, where are the tissues? That’s your brain on words. Emotional scrape? Words dangle the band-aid. Mental gash? Cry for story person, cry for self.
Writing is the wing-span, the leap, the soar. The concentration, the distraction, the light, the dark. It’s the sky a writer circles for a landing, the place words return to every winter, the x-marks-the-spot to the centering dot, the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning, world without end, huzzah.
In the middle, in the writing, are possibilities. Mental expansion. Freedom. The birth of ideas into a whole nest of amazing.
Life. With all its rosy petals and dark, unsuspecting thorns. Words. The math of the emotions, the map of the heart.
Writers. We weave words into stringy sentences, braid meaning into ropes for those drowning in their own songs. Words that save, arrange, rearrange, turn on lights, make us smile, make us gasp. Little symbols hatched together, the birdsong of inner worlds so the outer world has a song, a chance.