Windows of My Soul

All writer’s are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery.  Writing a book is a horrible exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.  One would never undertake such a thing unless driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.    George Orwell

Good prose is like a window pane.  It allows you to see beyond the confines of  your isolated world into the kingdom beyond.  Some window panes are sparkling clean, like a Windex commercial, while others are more akin to stained glass, or even dirty panes that barely let the light through. Weeding through the miasma inside one’s head to that clear windowpane is the part of writing that is so gratifying and rewarding.   We bring clarity from chaos.  And clarity brings truth.

I do believe that there is a certain vanity in all writer’s, that thought that what we have to say is so important that the world should hear it.   Writing is about affecting the future, leaving your mark in the world. Ego much?  Yes, indeed.

The ideal of affecting the thought process of people, some of which are yet unborn, if you plan to make a long-lasting impression, is a heady drug to writers. In today’s world filled with debased language, speaking opposites, confusing the issues on every level the world needs some sanity and grass-roots basics.  The current state of debased language is the art of deception.

The Devil’s Advocate will say “The world doesn’t need another book.”  How many times have you heard this?  Well, let’s be honest here.  I”m not writing for the world.  If I were it would be about world peace and healthy living, or else capitolize on what people are really buying and sell cigarettes and booze.

A writer adds a soul, a consciousness, a beating heart in the decaying corpse of society. It’s often been said that writers are a depressed lot.  Even more reason that my voice should be heard!

My clarity of truth is hope.  I think that’s definitely something the world needs more of.  Writing is a solitary act, yet I”m a very social creature.  I love to be around people, the proverbial party princess.  Yet, it’s in the quiet solitude that I plumb the depths of my soul, extracting bits and pieces from everything that makes me who I am.  Whether it’s a lump of coal for fuel, or a diamond, bit by bit my inner demon extracts them, examines then sorts into piles.

In the quiet moments is when I hear my inner voice speaking.  Writing sets the chaos to order. Polishing the rough extractions produces clarity.  In the solitude is where you pour your soul out, through your fingertips one pen stroke or keystroke at a time.  It’s secretive, almost as if the world should never see your darkest fantasies, your wild imaginings.  This is how I write my best stuff, in secret.  This is the only way I feel comfortable writing my love scenes, and *cough cough, blush* sex scenes.   In a weird way, it’s like you’re videotaping your characters private lives and then posting them on the internet for anyone to see.  Kinda weird, but that’s what it makes me feel.

A writer’s psychosis is fear of being rejected, and of being judged.  If you listen to that voice, you’ll never write a single word.  Writing is not an easy thing, and those who say it is are liars.  It comes more naturally to some than to others, but it still takes work.  I’ve listened to those voices for too long, shelving my dreams and not pushing my limits outside of the acceptable bounds.  That ship sailed, and sank in a bad storm at sea!

It’s a tormented existence this writer’s life, but in the words of a character from Tombraider, “it’s a pleasurable torment” .  Inside the writer’s box, in that solitude, no one hears your screams.