Gratitude for Writers...

I know, I know I already said I was grateful for writing, but this is kind of that, but with a twist.  I am grateful for the work product of writers.  The content that is generously released into the cosmos and there for us to pick up and assimilate.  Or not.  It is always our choice, unless we are in school and have to read for a course.  It is always up to us otherwise.

I love the written word far better than the spoken one.  I think it is the indelible mark writing leaves.  Things are forever altered by the preserved page.  There is a permanency and gravitas to the written word that is completely lost on the spoken one.  I think of writing as promises committed to the universe.  So when someone takes the time to write down their thoughts, feelings, love, anguish, I feel that the world’s job is to take notice, to take heart, to allow the words of another to change you.

I know the time and effort it takes to put something written into the world and I am so very grateful for all those who endeavor and toil.  It is a great gift to all who will take the time to read and understand.

So I am forever in debt and awe to other writers who commit to the process, the bleeding, the love, the commitment, the lash of the writing process.  It is not easy to be alone with one’s thoughts, feelings, misgivings and losses.  It takes a great amount of courage and guts to write down who you really are and what you really think and feel.  And I am grateful for all the wonderful examples I have in how and why to do this.

I am grateful for all the writing weirdos who take the time away from the internet, their families, regular life and cloister themselves away to allow that which is in them deeply to surface and be emitted.  And so producing something tangible for the rest of us, who are willing to sit quietly, and take it all in.  To give ourselves over to the ideas, thoughts and feelings of another, to allow ourselves to be changed and altered, forever by the words of another.

Yesterday I went to Henry Miller’s library in Big Sur.  A kind of weird collection of avant guard art installments under the protective and sheltering redwoods.  It was cool and dark and off beat.  I bought two books and a postcard of Henry Miller talking to EB White.   I don’t know exactly why that photograph meant so much to me as I have not been a huge fan of either man’s work, but something about the two men, facing each other, outside along a rustic fence, called to me.  Inspired me.  And made me, perhaps, want to read more of their words and works.

I shall likely never be famous.  I am not a literary scholar nor prize writing poet.  But I do stake my claim that I am and have committed to the craft.  I write daily, religiously.  I put it all out there for whomever is brave enough and has enough heart to take it all in. Sometimes, my writing is good, really good and often it is just fodder.  Mindless meanderings of a mind loosely tethered.  However, regardless, what makes me a writer is that I write.  I do it, I have turned my life over to it and have given myself to the craft.  It is how I live.  It is not a part of me, it is me, in motion, tapping out the contents of my soul.  Just like those that came before me: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, White, Miller.  Didion, hooks, Oliver, Nin.  I am not putting myself in their league except I too have found my way in this world by committing to writing practice.  And maybe one day, I might achieve something worth publishing if I keep at it and don’t give up.  The goal for me is not to have that happen, it is to be committed to the art and practice.  The fame and money might well ruin it all and me in the process.

I am grateful there are still people who read.  It was heartwarming yesterday to see all the people in Henry’s bookstore, perusing and turning pages of books.  In love with the smell of the printed copy, enchanted with all that is contained in betwixt hard covers.  The promise of understanding and connection that lies beneath each surface. Books are much like people, afterall. The cover only a slight hint at what lies beneath. And books, like people, are so often glossed over, missed and misunderstood as the cover can only represent, intimate what is contained within. And people, so very often lack the interest to ever be more than a surface dweller.

The only thing I would have added at Henry Miller’s was more places to lounge and read, to sit idle with book in hand and allow the words of another to alter your perspective, and in so doing, your life and its trajectory.

I know not where life takes me next.  I seem to be tethered in place for the moment, unable to move and not really wishing to do so currently.  A perfect time to write and allow life and all its vagaries to sink more deeply into my heart and soul.

Writing is a such a paradox, something to be done alone, but to be gifted to millions.  Proof that a solitary act can in fact change the world and all of us.  And so it does...

Again, still...

I am grateful for

Writers

A lovely day in Big Sur with weather that was simply amazing

The heart and soul that I feeling beating and breathing while I am there

Never being able to give up no matter how many times I am disappointed and let down

Riley and Grace’s love for each other

Time with my mom, fun, good, life affirming time

Seeing PC - seeing how happy and content he is

Being able to make the effort when people or things are important

Deetjen’s Inn

Cats

Marie for taking such good care of my babies

Time away