Tonight I’m tired. I had a restless night last night and today a long drive. I want to spend a little time on my writing class tonight before I go to bed so this will be short.
I’ve been reading a little of what writers have to say about writing. So many feel compelled to write. It made me wonder why I write and what I get from the process and also what I give to my writing.
Perhaps I’m a bit of a romantic at heart. I love the written word. Old letters are the best (I’ve written about them before in this blog post). People spill their hearts onto the paper and don’t worry about perfection. They convey thoughts and ideas, love and displeasure. I almost think I’d like to find a pen pal — do they still exist? There is something about writing, waiting and finally receiving a response that we’ve lost in these days of immediate communication with one another.
Writing for others is a different animal. This is where I lose myself. I am a part of the story and I am every character that I create. I hear their voices, I know what they are thinking and I can see an image of them in my interpretation of the words I wrote knowing full well that the reader may construct completely different imagery.
When I write, I enter a place where I forget everything happening in the world around me. I would not consider it escapism because I’m truly not trying to escape my life. It is more a place of meditation and beautiful solitude which is becoming more and more difficult to find.
Since I’ve been taking Margaret Atwood’s MasterClass, I find ideas are running rampant in my brain. I’m struggling to slow down my thinking so that I can do the exercises that accompany each unit. It requires an effort to contain and compartmentalize some of my thinking. I’m itching to write again.
Now I’m off to work on my class. More tomorrow.