I like to tell people that I’m drawn to writing because I can’t take good pictures. I’m not a talented artist or musician. And yet there are some moments that are so beautiful, I want to remember them forever.
The clear, crisp sunrise of winter, pale pink on its edges, a white-throated sparrow chip-chipping away at the icy stillness. . .
A grey wood watered by the slipping song of a thrush, drawing out of the brambles a gauzy green veil.
A thin, dry hand patting the back of my own.
I write to preserve my memories as much as I write to create worlds. And I write, because, strangely, words are not my friends when I speak.
Ask my husband. Ask my friends. Ask my kids or my students who always have to complete my sentences in class.
Words are my friends on paper and screen. I can anchor them here, rearrange them, paint and draw with them. But in the air, they fly away before I can speak them, like caged birds that have found an open door.
Maybe that’s the way it is for me. I hold them too tightly within myself. I cling to my words as I cling to my memories. I need to practice letting go.
My main character is working on letting go right now in my story. I’m not sure how she’s going to do with it. I think she’s ready. Which means she’s learned more about life in her twelve years than I have in forty-eight.
Wish us both luck.
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