Writing in the groove

There’s a depth of being that one *can* enter when writing creative fiction.

Imagine camping in the wilderness, by yourself, with little support — just a tent, a bed, a bit of food, weapons to defend or kill fresh game. Raw and exposed you are. But you’re open to the primitiveness of the experience, you relish it. Revel in it.

About the third day you are  no longer who you used to be. You are More and Less than you were. You’ve surrendered part of your humanity to become this other human like thing. This far more human creature that represents an extension of your true Homo Sapiens self.

Though, to descend while simultaneously ascending into this new level of consciousness costs you dearly. Costs you part of your societal soul. But you spend it, without care or worry.

Then you yank yourself out of this reverie and plop yourself back down into your work-a-day chair and your work-a-day trivialities and banality. You’re back. Ugh!

To write fully in the moment, to wedge open your heart to expose your raw self to your story and the characters within it, to give of yourself fully to the creative process — this is like solo wilderness camping. It’s like a drug. No. It is a drug, one so sexy and seductive that you feel no guilt downing your next fix.

When you can achieve it — it’s transcendent, like your voice echoing in a vast and deep canyon, you ache to linger in the sound and the feeling.

But it costs you.

When it’s gone, when you’ve returned, it’s a relief. A gaping loss yes, but a relief.

And then, when you think you’d like to re-enter this chasm of exposure, to write once again in such a evocative, provocative and soul rending fashion, you hesitate. The cost — you think. The depth of feeling and surrender, it’s so great. The elation, yes, it’s glorious, yes, but the sacrifice is great too. It’s a plunge of self investment into another world, a world of your making. A world divorced from this one. This one where it’s so much easier to coast along, detached.

That is where I stand, at the precipice of this next plunge. A dive, headlong, into a pouring of myself into words — the thought of it gives me pause. The time, like an offering, and the collapse of all defense… to give into this fully, it gives me pause.


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