A response to Marcela K's interesting open call, found here.

Why do I write? 

Words cast charms. They carry us to new places. They introduce us to new experiences. They move us to new thoughts and feelings. They sear us with new pains—and balm us with needed comforts. 

Sentences dance to a vast and delightful range of rhythms. Some waltz across the screen, swaying us with beautiful music. Some rock hard, driving us with edgy verve. Some tango into our hearts and loins, enticing us with tales of pain and sultry love.  

Paragraphs give shape to experiences and ideas. People craftily arrange sentences to tell stories that need to be told, to relate experiences that others can share, to argue points that must be discussed. 

Conversation is difficult. Expressing thoughts and feelings in real time is fraught with peril. Editing as you speak makes for halting speech and can leave the listener in confusion, yet nothing comes out perfectly the first time. Pauses invite contradiction or usurpation of the floor before you have completely developed your points. Writing allows the voice to speak as fully and as idiosyncratically as it wishes to. (Thanks to OS, comments allow the give-and-take of conversation to follow.)   

What do I write? 

A memory stirs, and ideas gather.  

A chance word is spoken, and a feeling swells in my soul.  

A picture appears, and a thousand words flood the mind. 

A bird comes to the feeder, and a lesson emerges.  

A flower blooms, and the world opens to me.  

An open call arises, and I answer.   

How do I write? 

I look out the window as words swim through my head, until the voice inside my head begins to assemble them. Fingers move along the keyboard, as Word records the jottings. The cursor darts up the page so I can expand an earlier thought or expunge one chosen word in favor of a new inspiration that carries more weight, or more lightness.

Returning to the last point, more sentences form, and the idea develops and grows, as a wave builds when it nears the shore. 

Sometimes, I pause and review everything to that point, tweaking here, revising there. Prune, like the careful gardener. Sharpen, like the tinker. Add seasoning, like the experienced chef. 

Sometimes, out of steam, I drift to Spider, hoping that briefly falling into mindless mouse movements will help that inner voice regain speech. 

Sometimes (not often enough!), the Muse smiles and the words appear in a gushing torrent, flowing from my brain throw my fingers onto the screen even at the same time I hear them spoken in my mind, a seamless and spontaneous shower that leaves me wondering what the hell just happened. 

Then, read and re-read, continuing the revisions, sometimes moving pieces around.

Next, I click on New Post, opening that precious invitation, and depositing my latest fruits there, hoping they are ripe enough. More read-throughs and more edits follow, punctuated by a new inner voice: “Oops!” “What were you thinking?” and, sometimes, blissfully, “Yeah.” 

All the effort aims to achieve a single goal: I, groping to feel the beat, struggle to fashion enchanting words into a pattern that will set others’ feet to move, and, perhaps, their heads to nod.  

Another Way of Looking At It 

Writing is like baking bread. First, you must decide what kind of bread you want today. Then, you assemble your ingredients. You proof the yeast to test it and then mix the other ingredients together. You plunge your hands into the dough, kneading and turning it to ensure that the leavening, which is the spirit of the bread, spreads throughout the dough, its body. You test by poking your fingers into the dough, and if it is ready, the indentations bounce back.  

And then you let the dough rest. For a while, you can do nothing but wait while the yeast ferments and the bread rises. It must gestate. 

When it is ready, you punch down the dough and shape it into your loaf, filling the loaf pan or making a free-form shape. Even then, though, the dough is not fully ready. Once more, it must rest and rise, gaining in maturity and flavor while you go about your other tasks. 

Finally, it is time to bake the dough. As it cooks, a rich aroma fills the house with the promise of fulfillment.

Only when it comes out of the oven, long after you began with the germ of the yeast, can you actually taste that bread, forming your own idea of its crust and its crumb, its flavor and its texture, as you look expectantly at the faces of the other tasters, hoping to see smiles of satisfaction.

Words © 2009 AtHome Pilgrim

All Rights Reserved.