Entering life as a writer
I always knew that there would be another era to my life, a time when the obligations would recede and the call to the creative would draw me to the longed-for solitude of the life of a writer. The moment of transition has come. With the dedication of the scribes of a cloistered monastery, my fingers slip across the keyboard in deliberately chosen stillness.
In anticipation, there were moments I had envisioned writing pages longhand while nestled into the old, yet classic slider rocker, the one piece of furniture that I know will be among the few artifacts of my life. The original outrageous purchase price has long since affirmed the adage, “You get what you pay for.”
I have chosen to retain that wonderful rocking chair as a resting place, a place for tea and a good read. Learning to write in my office will best serve me in the long run. Where the natural light reveals the seasons. Where the reading chair is not far from the writing desk. Where Molly can lie at my feet, faithful companion for hours on end. Where the technology of writing and editing is present, yet not intrusive. Where I have the option of quill and ink, or pencil or keyboard. Where Annie Dillard’s, The Writing Life and Brenda Ueland’s, If You Want to Write are there to remind me that “It’s okay to be a writer.”
Perhaps it is even important to be a writer, not for the world, but for myself.
It is time to let my soul weave together the threads of my life that are becoming a tapestry of great satisfaction. It is hard to imagine exchanging any of the gifts experience has offered. No challenge seems wasted. No relationship is insignificant. No story is irrelevant. No age is preferred. No wound is meaningless.
It is time to listen to the call that invites me to the life of a writer.