If Not For You ...
So I guess I've written a few words over the years, strung a few sentences together, made some sense some days, and probably no sense other days.
Sometimes, I think the world is like a song. Sometimes, I hear the music of life as a love song, and other times, it's more like a slow jazz number with a sad saxophone playing through a smoky room. Sometimes it's full of the kind of energy that makes me want to dance, and other times, I drift into some melancholy tune and find myself unable to move.
Variety, right? Spice of life and all that.
I learned a long time ago, that you can't be a writer and expect to live on an even plane. A writer lives on the edge of the sharp blade of emotion. A writer doesn't get to feel just his or her emotions but seems to feel some kind of chaotic rush of emotions from all over, feelings, both familiar and foreign, battering down the doors of sanity. I can't sit in a restaurant, a coffee shop, or even on a bus without wondering what the lady across the way is thinking and feeling. I can't see a couple in the corner of the room without wondering if they are in the first throes of love or finalising the affair with punctuated anger.
See? It's never a one-person show. It gets crowded in this brain of mine.
And, yes, you are always in my mind, swirling the magic cauldron of imagination to see what kind of broth I'll come up with on any particular day. I know, maybe we've never met, but there is always a you in writing, a someone for whom a piece is written. I guess that's the hardest thing to understand. I can't say that I always know who that "you" is, but he or she is always there, always driving the imagery one way or another, be it funny or sad, magic or tragic.
So, I wanted to write to tell you that you are important. You're a part of this process, this undoing of the knots that tie up words and thoughts as they spill out upon the page. I wanted to let you know that whatever I write, it's never for me and always for you. I know that I don't always catch your ear with the simple sounds of my writing. I know that, some days, you're distracted by more important things, and maybe you read without really reading. That's OK. Everything in life has a backdrop, and if I'm your backdrop for even just a few moments, then that's good enough for me.
Funny, thinking how we share a world for a brief time now and then. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. Without you, there would only be a blank page, an empty notebook, a blank screen. So, yeah, thanks and all that. You've made my world better.
So, so much better ...
Over the next month, I'll be busy with some personal matters, not the least of which is Christmas with five grandchildren. I can't say I'll be here every day, at least not until the New Year rings in, but I'll be around, so look for me from time to time.
So I guess I've written a few words over the years, strung a few sentences together, made some sense some days, and probably no sense other days.
Sometimes, I think the world is like a song. Sometimes, I hear the music of life as a love song, and other times, it's more like a slow jazz number with a sad saxophone playing through a smoky room. Sometimes it's full of the kind of energy that makes me want to dance, and other times, I drift into some melancholy tune and find myself unable to move.
Variety, right? Spice of life and all that.
I learned a long time ago, that you can't be a writer and expect to live on an even plane. A writer lives on the edge of the sharp blade of emotion. A writer doesn't get to feel just his or her emotions but seems to feel some kind of chaotic rush of emotions from all over, feelings, both familiar and foreign, battering down the doors of sanity. I can't sit in a restaurant, a coffee shop, or even on a bus without wondering what the lady across the way is thinking and feeling. I can't see a couple in the corner of the room without wondering if they are in the first throes of love or finalising the affair with punctuated anger.
See? It's never a one-person show. It gets crowded in this brain of mine.
And, yes, you are always in my mind, swirling the magic cauldron of imagination to see what kind of broth I'll come up with on any particular day. I know, maybe we've never met, but there is always a you in writing, a someone for whom a piece is written. I guess that's the hardest thing to understand. I can't say that I always know who that "you" is, but he or she is always there, always driving the imagery one way or another, be it funny or sad, magic or tragic.
So, I wanted to write to tell you that you are important. You're a part of this process, this undoing of the knots that tie up words and thoughts as they spill out upon the page. I wanted to let you know that whatever I write, it's never for me and always for you. I know that I don't always catch your ear with the simple sounds of my writing. I know that, some days, you're distracted by more important things, and maybe you read without really reading. That's OK. Everything in life has a backdrop, and if I'm your backdrop for even just a few moments, then that's good enough for me.
Funny, thinking how we share a world for a brief time now and then. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. Without you, there would only be a blank page, an empty notebook, a blank screen. So, yeah, thanks and all that. You've made my world better.
So, so much better ...
Over the next month, I'll be busy with some personal matters, not the least of which is Christmas with five grandchildren. I can't say I'll be here every day, at least not until the New Year rings in, but I'll be around, so look for me from time to time.
