Writing, the Journey of Life
Skint speaks of "waking" his dragon, which was reluctant to rouse, and only became demanding after he'd prodded it into action. In my own life, I've never needed to waken the urge to write, in fact I have never known its absence. I cannot remember a time when I was not fascinated with words, with reading, with books. The moment I was old enough to grasp the idea that people wrote these books, I wanted to be one of them.
I had a hard time imagining that everyone else's life didn't also revolve around the desire to write. I couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to do anything but write when there was such a fantastic, wonderful possibility available. The whole idea caught me up so much I wanted to learn, and be involved in, every aspect of book creation. I learned about publishing, and then I learned about the process of printing itself.
I learned to set type by hand, to make up a press, to ink it and then watch the type imprint letters on fresh paper. Every bit of this seemed pure magic to me. When I was hurt, the greatest balm I could find was the chance to write about the experience, to transform it through the magic of creation. When I was joyful, the words bubbled forth.
Whatever I have ever done in life, writing is a necessary accompaniment for me. It is as basic, as vital, and as unquestioned as my breathing. Just the process of setting words to paper using a pen is pure magic to me. I take joy in holding a pen, and allowing my words to flow through my mind, down my arm, and out onto the paper by this simple but oh so mighty and mysterious instrument.
Every step of my journey has taught me the value of writing. There was a time when, discouraged at the state of the publishing industry, I decided it might be impossible ever to succeed as a writer. I tried setting it aside, and turning to something else. It was something I enjoyed, but still I was not complete, not happy, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore the need inside me, it remained.
When I noticed the new possibilities inherent in the Internet, it was like rain in the desert. Having new opportunities to build a name for myself as a writer is not a guarantee that I will succeed, in any ordinary sense. But that long, barren stretch of my journey during which I believed writing was denied to me has taught me one thing. If I never make another penny by writing, I will still write. If I never receive any reward beyond the satisfaction of creation itself, I will be content.