After a morning of writing my strange and spooky fiction (He thinks he’s a writer of the macabre, folks!) and then a day at a mind-bending and almost thankless 9-to-5 job, I’m back at the keyboard writing my blog and losing track of time and everyone and everything around me … until I pause long enough to look at the clock and see the hour is late and I’m really tired.
But I go on and post my thoughts to anyone who cares enough to read about me.
I have been busy this week working on my web sites and trying to redefine them. I have a site for my artwork and another for my writing. All get visited, but only a few people comment their thoughts and opinions. Others sneak in and out, never recording a thing. These are the ones I wonder about. Why didn’t they comment? The Internet is a highway for communicating, after all.
But I go on and post to the expansive as well as the quiet ones because I have a voice inside I can’t silence. Every moment sparks a new idea for either a story or a painting … or both. But it’s the voice of the writer that burns brightest, the voice that won’t leave me alone while I’m trying to sleep.
Words call out, form sentences and create moments from a story in my mind: A lascivious young woman reclined in classic fine-art repose upon a lounge chair covered in multicolored satin linens and silk scarves. Her face was the color of the finest gold, ruby and sapphire. Her emerald green eyes sparkled. Her long auburn hair flowed down a seemingly endless body of extraordinary purity that glowed like a summer sunset in a garden of carnations and lilies.
What does that paragraph mean? I don’t know. But here I communicate to you a voice calling out to be heard.
And such is this writer’s life.