A note about this column:
The content of my column (especially that of the first few pieces) contains a heavy dose of the “creative” aspect of creative nonfiction writing. This column will evolve, with some pieces having more of a literary journalistic feel, while others will resemble fictional writing. Thank you so much for making the time to read my work.
“I suppose the only reasonable place to start would be the beginning. Yes,” she thought, “I shall start from the start – what a magnificent idea.”
As a child, she read the books, all the books, letting them fill up her mind, fuel her spirit, and honour her soul. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what made something magical enough to be considered inspiring, but she sure could feel it.
Every day, she wrote. In a notebook, in her journal, on her computer – everywhere. She wrote, and she wrote. It didn't seem like a choice, really. It wasn't really an idea she had or something she simply thought would be neat to do. She wrote because she felt she must. It was an expression of her soul. It was how her voice flowed out most naturally – unedited, uninhabited onto the page. Her writing bled of her. It spoke of her.
On a cold weekend in late November, when she was much older, she started to sense that a beautiful energy was filling her little family's home. She could feel that the house had been becoming – had always been becoming – a creative house.
Brick by brick, she built that house – that house of a writer. She breathed in the energy floating through the living room. She stepped into the kitchen, pausing to breathe in once again; the smell of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air.
The walls of their home were now filled with creative energy – energy of love. It was as if she felt called to write at all times; in truth, she was inspired at all times.
She thought, “These walls must be supported, not weakened.” Maybe she feared that inappropriate language or outsiders of ill intent could somehow destroy what had been built. Perhaps people of this nature could only be described as stealers of the universe. Another thought fuelled by fear crept into her mind, “Negative vibrations must never be allowed in.”
What she soon came to realize was that the thoughts were merely false tales, and tales of fear would never be as strong as the truth: the loving energy that filled their beautiful home could not be touched by another’s fragile language or presence – for the energy of light possessed both the strength and liveliness of a young Clydesdale.
She came to see that their house was now a house of inspiration. She could feel the creativity radiating through the walls, through her bones. This was the house of a writer. It was deeply embedded within the depths of the drywall. It was in the floor boards; it was in the air. It was as if she was building a home filled to the brim with the muse, a steady stream of inspiration infused. It didn’t end with the physical structure of her home. Her family, her friends, everyone – they all knew. She knew. She ate; she breathed; she slept; she danced; she moved; she spoke; she laughed; she lived… as a writer.
Much more than the belief that had characterized her faith in the past, she came to know and be certain that she was a child of God, a child of the Universe, living out the purpose that was ingrained on her soul, the one that was her soul. She was doing her life’s work. She was writing. She was the very essence of a writer – one who was faithful to her spirit and faithful to the written word.
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