If we examine the inner workings, the secrets shared between writers, their instruments of choice, and their/our endeavor, which is writing, putting pen to paper, and hopefully creating art, we find more than we bargained for.
I can give personal testimony that the act of creative writing is a compulsion that takes on its own life while it demands to be fulfilled. It wants to be heard. It’s a consciousness compulsion. Once the writing compulsion shows itself, everything you do and think wants to fulfill this compulsion.
Some writers are fortunate and discover their voice early in life. Some of us are equally fortunate and are able to silence the dragon while we enjoy doing something else. Sooner than later, if you live long enough, the writing demands its state. The longer you wait, the louder the dragon. That cranky dragon comes out, spitting five and smashing her tail everywhere.
My dragon, the writer within, slapped the other me into complete submission, took over my life, and wrote a 800-page science fiction saga. Two more books are in full development. My writer and I are twins living within this flesh. We take turns, but it’s a real drama story when both want a front seat. “To be or not to be. That is the question.” I finally understood what Shakespeare was talking about.
We, the people, are and always have been researchers possessed by enormous curiosity about everything. While my writer sister takes a break, I’ve engaged in other activities, including the magical instruments of our trade: pens, ink, paper, keyboards. I find them equally fascinating. We take so much for granted.
I’ve used fountain pens and make-believe fountain pens (Pilot extra fine) since I was about ten years of age. I’m from that generation that was taught to write in cursive, in addition to block. I recall feeling great pleasure when I practiced my swirls, making my writing fancy and pretty. Little did I know at the time that my inner twin was totally in control of my love of feeling my fountain pen glide on paper. The paper, the flow of the ink, the nip being told where to go and what to do. It was and remains wonderful to feel and see.
Once my inner sister, the writer, came out of hiding, she’d share tidbits about being a writer so I could enjoy our journey as much as she did. When I asked her where did all these wild ideas come from and what purpose do they serve? She’d respond that ink is the blood of writers. She would add that writers connect everyone throughout spacetime. How else can the greater reality which connects our minds exchange information? I thought we were talented and original. It appears that we swim in a fifth dimension of information that we can tap into. It’s crazy and equally sane.
The vastness of the Cosmos has its own intergalactic way of sharing data. If we seriously grasp that no one knows a single thing about the origins or anything else about human consciousness, the idea proposed that the universe is only one consciousness, which we are all a part of.
With these blocks in place, I surmise that creativity is an exercise in retrieval from a much bigger pool of data. Maybe, just maybe, ability and talent aren’t creators but gatherers, interpreters of the greater consciousness. Seers? Our senses come together to interpret what is already there, and ink is the blood that flows through our eternal consciousness vein, the pen.
This could sound like the ramblings of a madwoman during a sleepless night before the all-defining election, but I promise you that there is a great deal of truth in what my inner sister and I are telling you.
Do your research. Reach your very own conclusions. Every bit of information is available to you. All you need to do is focus on the subject of your interest and allow the information to reach you. Then, accept it with gratitude. Thank your lucky stars.
We bid you good morning. Happy election day. Cosmicspeed.
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