Writing on a Late Summer Day

It feels more like a late autumn day as the temperature is a mere four degrees and another night calls for frost. The summer mostly behind us as we set upon its final days, the equinox just around the corner – looking back on projects started and continued, I realize this has been a most productive year so far, and it is not over yet. Often I think the consumption of available, and valuable, time is disproportionately skewed to things not “write” until I look over the list of to-dos already done. It is then that I relax my self-reprobation knowing I have done all that I can possibly do and getting to the rest of it, is part of my journey.

At times it feels as if a chore to keep pen to paper, thinking I’ve not written near enough or that I am not near as diligent as I must be – and then I stop to think of all I have written. No one type of work defines my writing life as I take steps in many directions, pulled at times but grounded, I stretch my creativity, my imagination and my ability. When do you sleep, they ask, and I reply – I do just fine.

Like falling leaves on a windy soon-to-be autumn day, my words fall to the page, worked and crunched beneath my pen, in ways similar to an accountant and his numbers, often with desired outcomes but mostly with destinations unknown.

Herding projects is like sheep to try to keep them even and together, but when one lags behind it becomes weak, and needs more attention. The directed focus is distracted as the other sheep now fall behind and it is a major job as their leader, to shepherd them to higher, safer, level ground. There they will not drown among the status quo unwilling to be more than just commonplace. Instead they will become honed and practiced, drilled and driven, until they reach a zenith from where they will plummet to forever.

I take a break because my mind is not focused on the word but hears millions of other words and knows that ideas come and go and those that deserve life will live so. There is time to contemplate the world around us, absorb those experiences upon which so much of our writer’s emotion is based. Things happen and will continue to happen, whether we choose to sit at the page and write or put it off until another night. It should not be forced unless it is a type of work that requires technical coordination and masterful manipulation often found in position papers, business plans and advertising. Precise placement of those words not only fills a communicative process but speaks to another part of the human need for objective suggestion.

Words not forced flow freely and speak to the inner soul in a manner that might not even need the sound of words but rather the feel of them, or the touch of them upon our heart. Reading words that make you feel are the most important kind for they connect you to others in a universal way, compassion and contemplation – hand in hand, heart to heart.

My thoughts are subjective and true to my own nature, but I find a fellowship among those who are driven to them in whatever way – they know their power and respect them. My abandonment is short-lived as my passion dwells somewhere between my soul and the paper with words the longed for desire.

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Filed under On Life, On Thinking, On Writing

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