Every morning without fail, I meditate. In the past year, I have missed less than a handful of days: two of which due to the flu and absolute delirium, the other three during my recent move 1100 miles away (in a car with 5 kids, two weimaraners, and two cats howling their misery through the chaos). But other than that: I’m golden.

And then, after drinking my second cuppa Jo and surfing the almighty web, I write. Yessireebob, those magical hours between 4:20 a.m when my alarm goes off, and whenever my kids get up and demand me be their mother (boy that sounds bad!), I live fully inside of my mind–wherever that constitutes “me”. I could discourse all day long about this, but, i have beans and dogs on the stove (us poor arteests call it “indoor camping”), so I won’t.

My question is, when we, the writer, is writing: who are we?

And the closest I can get to an answer is that our cumulative we, is, no longer.

For me, writing feels like a continuation of my meditation on a whole other level. The moving of a body of energy far above the crown, out and into the ether; where all the writer has to do is be still and become the story-filter. Where every opposing aspect of our selves just fucks off: goes fishing; streaking naked in a mass body exodus, reeking havoc on shocked passers by; or, more often than not, blissfully back to sleep. And then, when we are breathing through the roof of our heads, we are left with something other:

the writer, alone.

One of my two favorite poets, Arthur Rimbaud wrote: I is an other. This is how I write. When I’m in that atmosphere–when I am the filter–I am as close to the divine as i think I could ever be. So for all those (you know who you are!) who think me bat-shit-crazy for waking at such an ungodly hour: these are the reasons why. Why I rise eagerly at 4 a.m; why I’m so often smiling; why I still find myself dutifully anchored to the roots of earth, like the photo I sculpted above. Not only do the words take me out of myself, but also, they ground my body-house . . . let it chill after a seriously long day of gravity.

So cheers, my fellow writers and word-chasing dreamers.

(Writer and reader alike: is there any place you’d rather be than awake in the glory of words?)



2 thoughts on “WHO ARE WE WHEN WE WRITE?

  1. Definitely not! Nothing’s better than getting lost inside the worlds you dream of. It is like being close to the devine. You are after all, the creator of that world.

  2. Hello! This is my first comment on your blog which I’ve just read and found interesting. Although my creativity is best expressed through music – I also write a little, and would like to do more. Its good to read about the lives of writers, and I wish you well with your work.

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