Playing for Time

I love to write.  I’ve been scrawling little stories since I learned how to form the letters.  However, in no way do I fancy myself a Writer in the mold of … well, anyone whose name you’d associate with published works.  I know writers, I rub shoulders with writers every day on Facebook and WordPress, and in the (adapted) words of vice-presidential candidate Lloyd Bentsen, “You, madam, are no writer.”  But the grim realities do not discourage me from loving the process, and even, sometimes, the result.  Thoughts and ideas dance around in my head and there’s no remedy but to sit down and spit it all out.

I write mostly for myself.  It’s cathartic.  It keeps my brain awake.  It’s highly satisfying to see the words flow onto notepad or screen and ultimately make perfect sense, if only to me.  But it’s also deeply gratifying when other people want to read what I’ve written, and when the feedback is positive and heartfelt.

The other night, someone I know and like a lot but don’t see often told me she loves reading my blog … and that I’m a “good writer.”  And even though I know the truth of my opening sentences above, her words went straight into my heart and stayed there.  I can live on that for a while … it’s like manna to the psyche.  A gift.

I’ve met incredible, amazing women here on WordPress who are quickly becoming real friends, and whose writing talents blow me away every single day.  Reading their blog pieces makes me want to write and write and write until my head figures out how they do that!  Too bad that isn’t how it works.

If you look up synonyms for gift, one suggestion is power.  They got that right.

I loved words.  I love to sing them and speak them and even now, I must admit, I have fallen into the joy of writing them.  ~Anne Rice