remembering why I write in the first place

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

There is hardly time, hardly ever time, but yesterday morning, early, I wrote three paragraphs of a novel.

Three paragraphs.

Closed my eyes to the terrible news of the world, tunneled in, aligned myself with characters who have lived with me for well over a year and who suffer from an extreme deficit of attention.

The headache I'd been having lifted. The calm that had eluded me set in. I wasn't running, racing, rushing, pressing, jammed against a deadline (several deadlines), and the words walked in.

Three paragraphs.

Enough to remember that it's possible. Enough to look back on as the rush, again, begins. Enough to remember why I write in the first place—not to be famous (I'm not), not to be rich (what does one do with richness?), not for the sake of power (I'll choose family and friendship over power any day). But to be at peace. To stop and listen. To imagine a better world than the one the news reports. To live there, only briefly. To escape inside of me.


AnnK said...

Beautifully put, Beth, feeling similar when getting into the studio (finally) for the found object art I do. It feels like another planet, that space of creating. Thanks for the reminder to take time from the rush!

Aging Ophelia said...

Nothing like the feeling of making something, yet how easy to lose that joy in everyday life.

Jena said...

To stop and listen. Yes, that.

The1stdaughter said...

Yes. This. So much this.

I've had this conversation with myself quite a bit these past few weeks. We do this purely for the hope we send out into the world, to make it better than it was when we left...we hope. I have no doubt you are, and have been doing just that.

You're incredible. So much love to you Beth. xo

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