If I Don’t Write to Empty My Mind,
I Go Mad. –Lord Byron
Being a writer is one of the most amazing gifts to have, especially when one reaches the station where it is fully integrated into your being, opposed to a “part” of you and compartmentalized. To see life and transcribe happenings, sites, and emotions through words and verse is no ordinary feat and bears a great responsibility. It is one of those callings that lives within your pores, is your sustenance…your H2O … your B12 shot … your G spot … your … your … [ahhhhh]
The still of night opens creative doors in unimaginable ways. I woke up around 3 a.m. the other day. My mind was reeling with combinations of words and potential enjambment approaches for a poem that haunted me earlier. I learned many years ago that when the horn sounds, I must take heed or risk losing the moment altogether. So, there I sat, with only four hours to go before having to prepare for the office, but energized by the possibility of something awesome about to land on the page. Well, at least the first draft of something awesome.
After completing my creative purge I let out a sigh of relief and stepped away for a moment for personal business correspondence (Codeword: Facebook), only to revisit the piece again – adding, subtracting, and literally dividing words and text. All I could ask for was to get as close to perfection as the twilight hours would allow before heading back to bed for a nap at that point, but feeling oh so elated by the magnificence of my work – toot toot!
Once one accepts the calling to the world of a scribe, nothing is sacred: time, place, nor space. There is no such thing as social decorum or etiquette. At points the inspiration from occurrences days prior manifest at the most inopportune times. I have found myself using my Blackberry to peck away, writing poems and notes for pieces while at staff meetings.
Then there are those unusual moments that the right word or line seeps into my consciousness while in conversation. And, there are instances that only my comrades can identify with, when we forego weekend outings to hunker down for an intimate one on one to write until our hearts are content.
[Cue: Georgia Anne Muldrow, fresh sage, and sweet wine.]
By far the most natural pieces for me are sparked by merely walking on a street and being drawn to people in passing – their laughter, their swaying hips or pimp walk, and even their silence. Without hesitation I scour around in my bag for pen/paper, or seek out a spot to sit with my laptop, to sketch the story that was told. At that serendipitous moment, there is no choice but to concede. This is the life of a writer, both a blessing and a curse, indeed.
