Here I am sitting in front of my computer, perhaps with a bit more appreciation today because yesterday morning I was pretty sure that it was dead. It wouldn’t power up. Through some miracle or whimsy of the tech gremlins, my laptop eventually did come back to life, however. I have decided that my best strategy is to avoid turning it off as much as possible.
Saturday I was riding high from my writer’s meeting. Months ago I joined a group through Meetup.com but never managed to make a meeting. Finally, I went last Saturday. I had a wonderful time. There I met a great bunch of folks, some new, some old to the group. Some just starting out to write and some recently published.
Meetup members Lesley, Kenn and Kyme drink coffee and offer mutual encouragement.
Between delicious sips of possibly the best coffee in the metro area, we discussed modes of narration, electronic publishing versus traditional routes, and finally, the importance of just writing. It was my first time there but you would not have guessed it. Clearly, I was in my element and flashes of memory swung down on me from years ago when I was a member of a young, energetic writers collective. Damn, this is what I live for.
As I listened to others discuss their ideas for projects currently underway, a part of me, not wholly visible, was lifted up in reverie. And I remembered why I love writing, specifically creative writing, so. It is this ability to create worlds, springing alive from our mind’s eye and to put them in print, to watch characters develop and lives unfold, to share that creation with some “dear reader” and have him get it, feel it; this ability to elicit through expression of words some raw, human emotion–that’s as close as any of us get to being God.
