Sometimes it’s hard to remember how much I need words, until the words of someone who knows how to paint and bend and pull letters into life reminds me. And it’s then, inside the pages of a master wordsmith, that I remember —
Remember that I’ve forgotten what it is to pick up a pen with no purpose other than to let the words untangle themselves. I’ve forgotten what it is to write with no other purpose than to set words free from the confines of my own mind. It used to only take the first scratch of pen against the paper fibers, and the words would begin to flow. As my fingers moved in fluid curves across the page, the words would run up and down the lines, and I would watch as they wrapped around the corners, into the margins, pressed up against the edges, free.
Once upon a time, I wrote as if no one would read it, wrote as if there were no such things as blogs and stats and page views. I wrote without second-guessing my words, wrote without considering my audience (there was none!), wrote without fear. And the words brought joy.
“Oh now the roots are reminiscing
Recurring dreams of minor chords
Muted chimes find the beat
And in the pulse there lies conviction
A steady push and pull routine
The cymbals swell
High notes flail into reach.” -Maria Taylor, Song Beneath the Song
Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time to let the words free again.
“[Writing] is… a kind of leaving of notes for another to find, and a willingness to have them fall into the wrong hands.” –Matthew Hollis
These are my notes.