Writing is such a gift.
It’s been a queasy last week. I violated some basic laws of hermitdom; I opened my mouth and spoke, and look where it got me. People mad enough to spontaneously combust, nasty emails, nastier (largely incoherent) phone calls, long chats with clericals in the Hawaiian shirts (that was actually just an incidental annoyance — the minister’s not mad… except in the way that the word “barking” is added to the beginning of the phrase [Okay, okay, I’m kidding. Not going to hell for my sense of humor already. Sheesh.].) and acid indigestion.
If nothing else, this past week proves yet again the rule “Thou Shalt Not Hit ‘Reply’ When Thou Meantest ‘Forward,’ is a true one, especially when you do this and write snarkiness about someone, since if they see it, they’re probably not going to be happy. And if they see it and are of a rather dramatic turn of personality, they’re going to go into hysterics and demand your head, and possibly the limbs of your yet unborn firstborn for reparations. Yes. This has happened. To me. Did I mention I’ve had a “queasy week?”
As a point of interest, all of the screaming phone calls and nasty letters and emails happened a week ago, and I have not yet dealt with any of the situations involved… because I’ve been writing. (WAIT, you say. Are you telling me that someone who goes weeks without actual conversations with people outside of the S.O. actually got into a smackdown with more than one nonsibling person within in a week? Why, yes. The stars were aligned, apparently.)
Yes. Writing. Happily churning out my novel for NaNoWriMo, churning out three fairly substantial chapters on my thesis-turned-YA-novel, complete with research on the military in the 1940’s (historical fiction=work!), doing the odd bit of newslettering for like-minded people in my various civic groups, and reading those forty-odd books that are lined up now on my Cybils reading list. But mostly, I’ve been writing. And writing, dear ones, is a gift.
Writing is the on-screen equivalent of plugging your fingers in your ears and singing “La-la-la-la I can’t HEAR you!” to your older siblings as they tease and poke at you. It is the hardcopy synonym for lying in bed, drifting in a vividly technicolor daydream. It is the narcotic-free sibling of diving deep into the longest, weirdest drug trip, it is the slow pulse rush of mountain biking down a narrow muddy trail. It is marathon running down the illogical edges of prose, doubling back on an illusionary flight of dialogue, ending with an explosion of endorphins, feeling foolishly pleased with yourself. It is the perfect way to lock out the world, to reject its reality, and substitute your own, to paraphrase the phrase.
As soon as it is humanly possibly, I am going to revert again to the writing hermit that I truly am, happily ensconced in my office, ignoring the outside world and letting the newspapers pile up unread as I struggle with ending Chapter 23. I now hang up my vocal chords, and take up my Fifth Amendment rights with a vengeance. I have had enough of talk. Now is the time to listen to the staccato cadence of my keyboard.
Writing is such a gift.
And, I am grateful for it every single, blessed day.
Hooray for writing. I’m with you on that.