When I set out to write, whether it’s here on this blog, in the novels I’ve written {but not finished, so no, you can’t read them. Yet.}, or at my fancy-dancy corporate copywriting job, it’s very rare that I know what I’m going to write. It’s always amazed me how differently my brain functions when talking versus writing; even thinking versus typing. Some people have commented on my “gift” or “talent,” and it’s funny, because I’ve never quite thought of myself as a gifted or talented writer.

Instead, I’ve found solace in putting words to a page, extracting my thoughts and placing them where I can see them, rearrange them, decode their hidden meanings. To me, writing isn’t a hobby or a job, it’s just something that makes sense. Writing sends me back to the days when I could play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata with my eyes shut, my fingers gliding over the ivory and black keys, the music surging through my hands, my wrists, up my arms, and into my chest. The notes would flow through me and back out, pulling my body and soul with it, my shoulders and head swaying and slumping as crescendos rose and fell.

Words fall from my fingertips, dripping with honeyed profundity, a collection of thoughts I could never eloquently express with my voice. While my brain tries to think of the next sentence, my index finger instinctively reaches for a key, the others following in suit. Another sentence born, birthed with love and instinct. I imagine that this is what a session with a therapist feels like: emotions and words tumbling with reckless abandon, a stream of conscious monologue where neither the patient nor the expert knows the destination. Hazy recollections and blurry snapshots come into focus, seemingly unrelated to the acute pain attempting to be assuaged. Slowly the visuals and stories begin to line up, strung together with a common thread, adorned with crystal realizations and metallic insight. And even though a catharsis has been reached, dusty emotions have been stirred and refuse to settle. More thoughts, more memories, more words that need to be delivered.

For me, writing begets writing. The black and white of my words is addictive, the high prolonged and relived as I reread every sentence. I close the computer, more words flash in my brain. I turn the lights off, another spark ignites, illuminating another truth that needs to be written. Nagging thoughts win the war against physical exhaustion, often compelling me to pull the computer back into my lap and give into the urge, the craving to let my fingers fly across the flat keys.

Thank you for indulging these cravings; for embracing my words, my thoughts, and the wild adventure I’m beginning. I am beyond flattered by everyone’s encouragement and compliments, and hope that my fingertips continue to lead me towards observations that resonate throughout us all.

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One thought on “Laboring.

  1. madelinemc says:

    Beautifully said!

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