Why do I write? The answer is: because I have to. I need the therapy looking deep inside provides me. I’m not talking about surface writing. You know, the kind a reporter might type when covering some disaster, a meeting, or a political event that might include both. I write only after communing with some sort of truth that bubbles up from within.
The truth may not make sense to some, but it resonates with me, the one person that actually counts. I can’t get to that truth unless I am totally honest. I can’t be honest until I’ve humbled and opened myself to some “thing” or “force” far greater than myself.
If I rush the process, I fool no one but myself. I need to see myself kneeling before the magnificent and wonderful Oz residing at some firey pool of water deep inside of me. The Oz that is all-knowing and filled with nothing but God’s honest truth. The Oz created by some primordial energy that exists within each of us if we but overcome our fear to search and look at it full in the face.
The problem is, Truth may not be to our liking. Particularly, if it reveals our weaknesses, our foibles, and our shortcomings, we might see the man or woman we thought we are, are not whom reality tells us we are.
It is when I touch the rock bottom of this Truth that I can gain the most. I leave my ego on the shore and strip naked to take in the vast importance of that single moment. I give up past and future and look deep into the now, feeling more than intellectualizing the joy that honesty brings.
I am a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder at a thought or two I have always had, but had been unable to put into context until then. That new, pure, innocent thought grows and can be directed if I remember the state of mind my beautiful inner being provided.
Writing now becomes an act of remembering what it was I had sought earlier. If I’m lucky, words begin to appear from a source I didn’t know I had within me. I’m astonished when I look at the creation sometimes, and wonder where the hell it came from.
No, not where the “hell” it came from. But, where in “heaven” did it come from!
That’s the place that is inside of me and you, and upon writing, I can go to and enjoy it when I strip all vestiges of being a “know-it-all.” Jealous nay-sayers will swear on a stack of bibles you can’t enter this Promised Land until you pass away from earth. I’m saying that it just isn’t true. Ask anyone who writes, anyone who tries to write from the heart. Ask the teenager writing about his or her first broken heart and how the words come almost unbidden. Look at the senior men and women recalling their moments in the sun when something so extraordinary had occurred, it left an indelible mark they can relive and see at a moments’ recall on the keyboard.
All of us can do it. But none but the brave can face it because it hurts. It hurts to let go of what we think we know and accept that the truth, sometimes, is something that must be revealed one solitary written moment after another.