Writing Life

Writing drives me. I am Written when I put pen to page, fingers to keyboard. Everything happens on the page – fears, fantasies, truth and fiction. My Life happens on that page. I depend on writing as much as on my breath.

I write when I’m afraid, lonely, in good company, elated, scared, hopeful and despairing, bored, crazed, peaceful, hurt, at ease, pissed off, feeling connected, worried, inspired, pleased and displeased.

I write wherever I am:  in my favorite glider rocker, on the couch, in a desk chair, on a stool, atop a rock, in the grass and on the sand, in a car.airplane.train.bus.ferry, in classrooms, grocery stores, in boiling hot deserts, and while my fingers are burning with cold on an ice-covered land mass, or at a desk. I have written in war-torn countries, villages, cities, on islands, in forests during the day or at night or in the middle of the night, at dawn and dusk. I have written in the quiet of a winter snowfall and the daunting clamor of rush hour in the city. 

And I write about anything. Literally:  ANYthing. I have written about love affairs that are going well. Or have ended. I have written books and articles about academic or philosophical things. I write about my own, or others’, experiences. These others include birds, people, seals, dogs and cats; whales and penguins; trees/plants/flowers/herbs/grasses; water (salt and fresh) in ponds, lakes, oceans, sounds; around islands, or continents, or in a little jar on my altar. I write about spiritual experiences, the homeless, traveling, unfairness, gratitude, illness and death, paper making, earthquakes. 

I write for publication or in secret. I write notes, essays, these blog posts (which are always unedited), journals, conference papers, bios and business plans, marketing blurbs, letters, recommendations, cards, emails, cover letters, text messages (Queen of Verbosity), really awful poetry, lists, proposals, love letters, book chapters…But only very rarely have I written the “red pen” letter (my maternal grandmother’s specialty) or a “Dear John” letter.

Sometimes my writing bores, disgusts, embarrasses me. Other times I am happily surprised at what comes onto the page; usually these are moments I claim as Not From Me But From Some Unseeable Divine Entity.

I have not written while riding a skateboard but I’ve written while I’m taking a run. I have written alone, in groups, with a partner, in the company of bees, ants, hummingbirds and gnats. I have written while my heart is still pounding from the sound of a coyote howling, just fifteen yards behind me…or across the valley when I was all alone and hungry in the wilderness.

Somehow I have managed to write when my hands are sticky with sap, dirty from mud, covered in dried fruit juice or chocolate that I only half-licked off my fingers, bloody from a cut, or bandaged after an accident. I have handwritten with both hands, although I claim my right as the dominant; and I have held a pen to paper when my hand has fallen asleep.  

Writing drives me. And I am smitten all over again.

All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.