The writer is a lonely animal, spending the majority of the day in solitude. Occasionally there is musical accompaniment, occasionally there are cafes bustling with people. Mostly, there is only the writer, with a pen and paper.
I have been writing ever since I learned how, but I never called myself a writer until recently. It doesn’t pay the bills (yet), and most people that I interact with can’t comprehend what it looks or feels like to be a writer. It looks and feels, in a word, lonely. However, it is indescribably fulfilling.
To elaborate, this is sort of what it looks like, superficially:
The Writer’s Sanctuary: volumes of filled journals dating back to 2006, a recent issue of Poets & Writers magazine, inks, paints, pens, brushes, glues, tape, stacks of photographs, and a record player and vinyls in the background.
The Writer’s Shelf: notes on deadlines; inspirational quotes, reminders, and scribbles (see below); tiny canvases waiting to be finished; an envelope stuffed with plane ticket stubs and foreign currencies; a stone elephant from India; a golden elephant and bell from Thailand; vintage photographs of Mt. Fuji and an unknown girl in a library who looks like a relative; blank notebooks; and a transparent pink folder containing typewritten pages from the past few years, awaiting edits.
Inspirational quotes, reminders, and scribbles:
“All composite things pass away. Strive for your own liberation with diligence.” – Buddha
“You write to please yourself, you write to move yourself, to engage yourself in the asking of questions that are important to you.” – Jonathan Safran Foer
saturday, december 2011. i need to write yet i find myself doing anything but writing. today is a perfect example of life lately—doing anything & everything except what feeds my soul. not writing makes me cranky. my thoughts are clouded; i can’t tell up from down. when i don’t write i lose sight of who i am.