I’ve discovered something I do love unequivocally about writing. I love being a writer. I love it when I feel like a writer. I love having lines of prose come to me in odd moments, placing the big cat bowl filled with fresh water on the kitchen floor, waiting at the bus stop, rounding the corner on Camino Real. These days I don’t often race to my notebook or try to engrave the words in my brain until I get home, but they do feel like evidence of the way being clear. And there is an element of being in both worlds. I like that. I like knowing I am alive in both worlds, present in both, connected to both. It’s true, when I’m having a line of prose arrive it may make me a bit distracted, a bit not present in this world, but it feels different from just being in my head, different from trying to figure something out, solve some problem, write my grocery list while I’m on my walk, blind to the mountains before me. When the prose comes, I am still in this world. My attention is different, but I’m not absent in the same way. There may be a kind of veil, perhaps, a dreamy gauzy one-step-removed-ness, but I stay in my body, remain grounded, centered. I love this. I love having ideas about my characters or tiny tweaks to something I’ve been revising fall into place when I’m riding my bike or raking up the bougainvillea blossoms. I love thinking, oh, I should write about that, when the man walks away with the Von’s shopping cart I had planned to use to get my heavy bags of laundry to the other side of the shopping center, when I tell him I’m going to be using it and to please leave it there and he says, “No,” and walks away with it. When my eye is on the story in things, I feel the most engaged, the most grateful, the most like myself. It is in these moments when I know without doubt–I love being a writer.
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