The writer’s life is not a choice! Not really. It is a must beyond a lifestyle, which implies choice, but a passion that drives life on for anyone who ever understood that words are alive, and ideas the true countries we live in…
Sometimes we might not write for weeks, months or even years at the time, but when the demons are after us, when the dragon offers a ride, there is no salvation: novels need to be written, poems call to be cited, and hard thoughts need to be faced, like tigers.
So contemplation, solitude, and inspiration are all necessary, like elusive castles in the air we writers need to enter to draw from the ether, to hear what needs to be said, to write down new laws with our tears.
Writing in company is certainly possible, but to reach into the depths of despair and wisdom and to come forth with treasure, with insights and thoughts that are as sharp as swords, we usually need to be alone.
So we writers are inspired by suffering. Our, others or the common shared pains, which brings us again to this necessary solitude to ponder the turmoils and extract the pearls.
And why do we complain? We writers are wincers, are we not?
It does not matter if we are or not, if we like our chosen path or not. We still write. At least we wish we would. We remember how it was last year when we wrote that novel, and how we loved catching those phrases, like elusive butterflies.
If we chose this or not, once bitten by the tiger, we writers have to hide in our holes and shun the world to hone that craft, to get those blisters and sweat that blood.
Oh, what do we have to suffer to investigate and express? And of course to express the right way. That particular way. A way that hits the sweet spot, to find the right flavour, the perfect tone, to reach that orgasm of language with exquisite words. That’s the way to catch that inner image, to make it accessible to others, and then we call ourselves writers. Or else we’ll get more grey hair, or lose the ones we’re still holding onto for dear life.
Being a writer is, without a doubt, functioning as an antenna, a translator. Sometimes these foreign languages of the cosmos elude us even though we strain, we poor writers. We do everythign right. We search the inner, the quiet and lonely darkness, and we do it without promise for rewards, trophies, or publishing contracts. We do it because we must and despite the risk of meeting our inner lost horrors. And maybe find nothing else than those.
Because once in a while, the monsters sleep, the tiger snores, and fairies visit to awaken a legend. Then truth and dreams dance, and from those depths, real stories grow.
Suddenly it dawns on us. Revelation strikes like lightning!
We find the right words. We swim with their flow. And as their wild stream takes us, away, away, we get gladly carried to the unknown, where, my friend who might write or not, it’s better than anywhere else. Anywhere in the universe.
When we are chosen for an idea, to receive it with our antenna and translate it into visible ink, we are no lesser than gods. We create, we are the messengers and also all creation. All at once.
And for that, my friend all suffering was worth going through for. All darkness and solitude forgotten, we march on with swollen chests, knowing we are The One. Another writer is born.
We witnessed life itself, with death and birth falling and rising in far cosmic corners. No wisdom is foreign to us, no frequency that we can’t hear. No fear, no monsters can catch up with us, can catch us like a disease… until they do.
We share too soon the message, and the messenger gets killed.
The messenger is human and bleeds. Bleeding pride.
Then the river’s speed slowly ebbs, until it comes to a painful halt and the ordinary sucks us back into reality where we have to fit in. Like all the others.
We have to make a living. Care for the children, please a boss.
We are The One.
From now on we’re always on the prowl, on the lookout, ready to be pounced at by truth, by dangerous ideas, by our own courage.
And once tasted the ambrosia, once felt the thrill of our immortality we’re doomed and addicted. We can’t wait to be alone and allow ourselves to listen once more, to face the tiger hidden on empty pages…
…And that, my friend, is the circle of life for a writer.
If we admit it or not, we can hardly wait to ride the next wave, to catch that wild river again. Even with those unfinished manuscripts in the drawer, and those two finished novels no one has ever read. We still want to go again.
Sure, we might drown, get bashed up and suffer, sure. Or we might come out on top. With some wisdom and another story worth telling. Who knows?
That thrill and the chase keep us breathing, keep us writing and searching. It reminds us that we are The One, immortal; and sometimes, rarely, just a bit less.