It came like a little creature approaching and feeding on fear to grow. It sneaked up behind me like a surprise that is waiting to push you off that cliff into uncertainty. And it all arose from that moment of fear. Fear that it was going to be taken from me.
I say it resembled a miniature mouse at first glance, merely because I knew it was there. I acknowledged the little possibility as it stared up at me with round-eyed curiosity. However, I mistook sneakiness for admiration. I figured the mouse would simply stay there, perhaps snag my other treasures, that would not be a surprise. But when it laid eyes on the biggest prize. That was when I knew it would change. The little mouse facing me would go through a painfully quick growth spurt, eating away at all the little pieces of things I kept close, and finally it wouldn't be a mouse at all. But that ugly monster, rearing its head in the waves of disaster.
"Well you'll just have to stop your writing." I'm sorry, did I just hear: "well you probably should stop breathing right now. Just to get started. Next week we'll start tongues of fire and waterboarding."
If any writers out there are reading this, you probably understand (at least to a degree) what I mean by the last statement. To have your will to write threatened is quite possibly one of the worst offenses against a writer's soul. Ever. Period. It's right up there with "this stinks!" and "well it's good, you just don't know enough about what you're writing about." The initial reaction that your body takes on after hearing the words 'stop' and 'writing' is laughter. Yes, laughter. You want to look at the person who has just considered you strong enough to carry that command through and tell them they should do stand-up comedy right then and there. And yes, I can say writing is a weakness of mine. I am not strong enough, nor will I ever attempt to vanquish the powers it has over me. I love it. Take away all the details, every little heartache, every small cry of desperation that escapes a writer's lips when they can't find that certain word. Rid the scene of all intricacies that blind most, and you will see the love that flows straight from this writer's heart, through the fingers, and right onto the page. Read my stories, my blurbs of action, even some of my school papers and you will see, well, me.
Some people say 'oh I am my life's accomplishments', or 'I am me when I paint' or those more wild ones, 'you can see me in my children'. It took a long while for me to realize what made me ME. Years actually, which is saying a lot considering how 'young' I am and how big a life I have ahead of me, etc. At first it was the singing. I love to sing, I love when a baby smiles when I lull him or her to sleep, I love when people tell me I have something going for me in my voice. I am not egotistical, but there are those certain things you do love that you can do. Singing is one of them. But there was something that went deeper, the words that I carried a tune with. They fascinated me. Then it was filming and photography. I love it. I can capture a scene that flashes by my eyes in an instant and know exactly how it's going to look framed and on a wall. I love freeze-framing every little aspect of life, capturing a two minute snippet that might or might not inspire admiration from someone else's eyes. Creating things. That was what I realized it was about. The process, the journey it took to complete the finish product. Nursing: it was the thought of helping people. Journalism: it's the passing on knowledge to others. Acting: telling a story through expression. The list goes on. I was your typical little girl with big dreams that all led back to one little thing.
As quiet as that mouse. A free as a bird. As passion-invoking as the gospel on Sunday. As loving as a song. As full of expression as a human being's eyes. That written word. My love. My life. My world. The one thing that, no matter what happens, no matter what you may try to take from me, has no end. Its heartbeat cannot be extinguished save for through me. Its voice cannot die, only sleep in my mind. I see it every day. Colorful, magical, always moving like the tide. People, emotions, hands, eyes, tears, smiles, laughter...words. It is behind everything. Even in the smallest, most unseen details. Spoken or written. Sang or signed. THAT is really the universal language. And for me and my pen, it is the door to so much more. You cannot take it. You cannot snuff it. You can only let them drum on....
