Sometimes, it takes everything a writer has in her to stay focused on what the work’s about. To set hurt and disappointment and the trials of daily life aside, and find where the work lives. To know that, even if there’s no time right now to walk among the characters and pages, the heart will clear and the destination will resolve itself.

It’s tough to write through pain and loss that come from the outside world. The temptation is ever-present, to give the burden over to that place of method writing, the place where one can make use of those difficult and painful feelings in the imaginary world. But I can’t. Won’t. The need for expression, for exorcism, is all too great…yet the exercise cannot serve the press of emotions nor the cause of them—at least, not while the ache is still so immediate.

One wants to be generous of heart. One wants to live in love—the giving of it and the receiving. One wants to be equal to the expectations of others…and to manage one’s own need. One wants to clear a space in that vital, living existence for every kind of thought and meaning and feeling; for every evidence of every friend. Sometimes that doesn’t work. Sometimes the world just turns into a big, muddy “why?”

I know I’m being a little oblique here. That’s deliberate. I don’t want to be guilty of the same act that had brought me such hurt. So you’ll just need to find yourself in this post. Even if we’ve never met.

 

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