Pss.19:4 Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun,A writer sits nestled behind the short wooden desk, a lamp that looks like a small crane reaches out its light to cast dreamy whiteness onto the keyboard. Fingers can be seen tapping on the keyboard as many words fill the page.
The image of the writer spending many days and nights in this very position of straight back, legs curled up under, possibly a warm fuzzy blanket wrapped around to take off any chill that might drift by, and silence. Silence fills the air except for the keys delivering a cabaret in the stillness of the morning.
The writers mind envelops many worlds, wired to fantasy outside of home. Clinging to thoughts that have passed over time and now adhering like a wet blanket to the mind waiting to be spilled onto the white page.
The roads are dark and treacherous, the clouds ominous, the sounds piercing, the people all held within a conflict of the world that spins around them. Material and immaterial presence is lurking around every page, stones skip in a river, boulders tumble down the side of a mountain, barely missing the few that have wandered this road.
This is the eclipse of the writer as she destroys families, rebuilds friendships, molds characters, misplaces words, only to find them resurfacing on another page, another chapter in time of the story, waiting to be used for the most poignant part of the clincher, the revealing of the truth that created this story to begin with.
Sentences all line up like soldiers, dark and mysterious, forming gripping paragraph after gripping paragraph. The reader is in the mesmerizing throes of the pages that have formed the story and the writer, the quiet, beautiful writer has cast a spell holding the one who reads the story in the palm of her hand.
Here before you lies a tale of the writer’s life. Sure if they’re making millions, they’re probably out having fun in between stories, but for us wannabe’s, we’re here living out this fantasy of putting meaningful words, compelling words, to a page. We can’t just tell you a simple story, with so-so words. We have to pack a powerful punch in each and every single word so that the meaning can carry on throughout an entire chapter, massive amounts of pages, to a finale of complete orgasmic quality!
My mentors always tell me to make every word count and as I scan my sentences I’m always making sure there isn’t a boring word, that will stop you in your tracks and cause you to toss my book/story into the heap of no-good reads of yesteryear.
Did I say orgasmic quality? What can I say. Writing is a euphoric high here in the pine scented confines of my humble abode. Without any inhibitions, writing is, my home within my home.