Writing. Writing . Writing. That is what I do. I am a writer. I am, I am, I am, am I? Am I? Am I? I am a writer or am I a writer? Is writing who I am or is who I am a writer? Does writing define me or do I define it? How do I decide what to write? Does what I write decide me? What a paradox.
I don’t know if my writing finds me or if I find my writing. Where do I find my writing? Is it in me? Is it outside of me? Is it part of who I am or part of what I am surrounded by? Where does it come from? Does it come from a babbling brook or a bbbbabbbbling brain or a bbabbbling blood flow from within the veins of my being; within the pores of my skin. Does it pour out of me or does it pour into me?
Pouring like the rain.
Pouring like tears of sadness and tears of joy and tears of frustration.
Mellow tears or hollow tears?
Pouring like the river of babbling words.
Where does it come from? From my fingers that keep typing away at nothing or typing away at everything? Fingers eating away at the thoughts running, skipping, racing through my brain like a freight train with no destiny. No itinerary. No journey too far or too near or too crazy.
That is where my writing is taking me to the crazy train of thoughts that race unhindered in a fertile mind that has no boundaries. It could derail at any time. It does derail and skips rails and tumbles into the train wreck; into the train yard of rusty old memories.
Where does the writing come from?
Where is it going?
What is its destiny?
Is it destined to die in the heap of wrecked trains? Or is it
destined to ride the rails of greatness? Does it matter? Does it really matter where the writing takes me? Does it matter where my writing takes you? Do you want to ride the rambling freight of runaway thoughts? Do I want to ride the train?
I have no choice because my fingers insist on typing. Click click clicking away at the keys. Frantic fingers. Dancing fingers. Fingers that have no boundaries. Fingers that won’t tire even as the rest of the body screams that it is time to rest. sleep. so tired. Yet, the fingers type endlessly. Purposefully. Nonsensically. Nonsense - and still they type. Still they type beyond the cramping beyond the call to stop this silliness.
“I am not a writer!” I shout to the fingers.
“Yes, yes you are!” they say. “You are a writer because you belong to us and we belong to you and we will not stop typing. Typing is what we do. It is what we love. It is what we live for. We live to type meaningless words or worthy words or funny words or sad words - any words. That is what we fingers do and that is what we love. We fingers are the writers - the typers of great and wonderful words. The typers of powerful and sad words; happy words like love and joy and peace. Silly words like Horace Hobbersnipple and dancing squirrels and the like. We are the writers - you just supply the brain!”
“Ok, fingers” I scream, “the brain says stop.”
“Ha! No! Not yet! We’re not done!” they punch back. “We’re just getting warmed up. We are happy fingers. Happy to be pecking.”
Peck.
Peck.
Peck.
“STOP!” I scream.
“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” They mock.
“Stop typing!” I beg.
I beg, you beg, we all beg for ice cream. Still they type.
“Please stop!” I holler from the back of my brain.
I holler, you holler, we all holler for ice cream. My fingers continue to mock me. They go on and on and on. They know I’m tired and yet they type. Why? What do that want to say?
“Say it! Say it@ Say it!!!!”
“No. Not tonight. Not yet. Soon. Soon we’ll say what has to be said. Soon - when the inside meets the outside and the two become one. When you know for certain that you are a writer and writing is you. That you feel it inside and out. That you become one with yourself - your whole self. When your fingers and you become one and work together to create the writing that is in you and around you and through you. Then, we will say it together. Soon. Soon you’ll be ready to say it.”
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