Dusting It Off

Whenever I sit down at the computer to write, I envision myself blowing the dust off of an old book, or shaking my hands out like a pianist ready to stroke the keys with his genius. I picture Eric Clapton (yes, I realize I'm dating myself) strumming his fingers along the strings to test the notes before he dives in to an amazing song. I see William Shakespeare, however debated the man may be in modern life, sitting at one of his windows, staring out at the streets of Stratford-Upon-Avon, soaking in the inspiration.

I will aside here, and note that I have been in that house where Shakespeare thought, wrote, and entertained other writers. I have walked where they have placed their feet. I have touched their names, etched in glass windows as a tribute to their peer, their mentor. I have touched the stone walls in the room where he was born. It was not a religious experience. That feels different. It was a feeling that there were in that house the spirits of men and women who understood the way my weird little mind works. Understood it so that they let it consume them and guide their dreams.... A good lesson, I think.

 Emerging from my digression, I do not fancy myself to be to writing what Eric Clapton is to a guitar or a concert pianist to his instrument. I don't liken myself to Shakespeare, or idolize him. But oh, how I understand the passion of these. So strong it pulls at me, clutching me to its breast as though to protect me from others who would not see me realize my dreams; and by design or accident, they are many. When I write, I feel something I don't feel in my every day live. I feel power; as though with a single set of words I might persuade a reader. I feel intelligence; as though every word I say is important, and sounds so. Mostly, I feel at ease. This is where I am comfortable. Sitting in a chair with a pen and paper, or resting my wrists on the edge of my keyboard as I type. This is where I know what happens next, and where I can control it, guide it, and see its outcome before it occurs. Most of the time, anyway. This is the only place where my voice is the loudest in the room. "These words are my diary screaming out loud." And they are. Some diaries, books, works of art are found only after an artist is dead, and only then are they valuable.

But I don't want to just leave a legacy. I want to lay the path that leads to it where the value lies in the small wisdoms I have taken from my life. And though they may not be new (as "they" say nothing under the sun is), they are just as precious.

 I have a voice, and for the first time in my life...I intend to be heard.