Writing is like holding your breath in ice cold water. You put it off until you push yourself in. And then you gasp, and choke, and your eyes are wide open as you swim like a drenched cat, to get out.
But, a watery metamorphosis occurs from the second the diamond macabre water touches your skin. Currents and eddies of the stories left by others, unwritten, pull you down as you struggle to hold your words high above your head in clenched fists that must return to the water to keep you afloat.
Beautiful words drip before your consciousness, words found only in the depths of the cold water. Flailing about, your hands grasp for dry pen, scrap of paper, anything to put it down on, anything to save the words before they sink to the bottom of the water again. And as you swim you throw the words down on those dry lifeboats, the flotsam and jetsam of creativity and imagination, just as fast and furiously as you grab them.
You are an Olympic swimmer and, baby, this is not about bringing home the Gold. It's a precious metal-of-the-mind contest to record the bits before you lose them forever.
When you finally stop swimming at the edge of the sea of language, and lift yourself up and out, you have become a sleek seal who rose above the death waters between Scylla and Charybdis in the Straights of Messina. A Selkie shedding her skin to reveal the true self, and an amazing thing happens - you just can't wait to go back in again. #writeyourselfalive
But, a watery metamorphosis occurs from the second the diamond macabre water touches your skin. Currents and eddies of the stories left by others, unwritten, pull you down as you struggle to hold your words high above your head in clenched fists that must return to the water to keep you afloat.
Beautiful words drip before your consciousness, words found only in the depths of the cold water. Flailing about, your hands grasp for dry pen, scrap of paper, anything to put it down on, anything to save the words before they sink to the bottom of the water again. And as you swim you throw the words down on those dry lifeboats, the flotsam and jetsam of creativity and imagination, just as fast and furiously as you grab them.
You are an Olympic swimmer and, baby, this is not about bringing home the Gold. It's a precious metal-of-the-mind contest to record the bits before you lose them forever.
When you finally stop swimming at the edge of the sea of language, and lift yourself up and out, you have become a sleek seal who rose above the death waters between Scylla and Charybdis in the Straights of Messina. A Selkie shedding her skin to reveal the true self, and an amazing thing happens - you just can't wait to go back in again. #writeyourselfalive
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