A meditation swirls around my mind, or my mind circles a meditation - I'm not entirely sure which. What I do know is that if I find a moment of stillness an idea will come. Whether I find it or it finds me is another open question.
Which doesn't matter too much. Although the idea might now be mine, it doesn't belong to me, not truly. I might see it elsewhere.
That doesn't mean it's not my idea to take - as long as I make something more of it and/or acknowledge where I found it.
In this way I place thoughts into words, and the words are revised and reformed and refaced. If enough of these come together there might be a small piece of story.
I wonder where these ideas come from and what they mean. Although found within, they resonate with others.
Why? Are these thoughts interesting because they're part of me, or because in myself I see a reflection of others?
There are no answers. I keep writing ...
There's a difference between
who I write for, and who I write to.
There are many people I write to
but only one person I write for.
The people I write to are
But I write for myself -
I write for my desire for inner clarity
I write for my craving of self understanding
I write for validation from the people I write to.
For the writers whose auras are bright and shiny,
and by that I mean the writers who write for others,
I extend my admiration to you
as I cannot say the same.
It’s nearly midnight. The house is silent, save for the rise and fall of the sounds of slumber, and I sit, not quite alone, in the presence of my thoughts.
On the face of it, my life seems like a continuum that starts before dawn and races headlong toward the inevitable dreams that lie in wait at the end of the day.
And yet, unbeknown to others, my time is cracked. Between the hours, small fissures appear, often without warning and I allow my mind to fall into them. I have learnt to work within them. They are a constant distraction and yet, these voids contain fleeting fragments of visions, concepts, emotions, memories and aspects of myself that I long to explore.
Having discovered that I can corral these elusive abstractions with words, I write until they become tangible. My characters make them tactile so I can return to the page and wander with them over and over. This may seem selfishly introspective, but I write because I can, and I love to.
I often wonder if others have these cracks in their day and if, when they fall into them, they can make sense of what they find.
My belief is that this is why we have stories, written by writers who can chronicle the disparate facets of our lives for those who struggle to do so.
Copyright: text to the writers listed above; photos Wix.
This SSOA blog showcases the work of emerging Australian writers.