Creative Process & a Special Poem
Last night a friend of mine took me to the Grand Cru, which is a wonderful place to spend an evening. Every time I visit there I determine that I need to go back again soon and work on my writing. It seems like an ideal place to write due to the energy, atmosphere and interesting people I’ve met there. Of course the moment I get wrapped up in conversation I completely forget that I was intending to write. Still, even if I don’t write much while I’m there I wind up getting ideas for my story or, even better have the pleasure of a good conversation.
While I have been out writing I often get asked about the story I am working on. Sometimes people want to know if I have included them in my story and the answer is a qualified no. That is I never have the whole person included in the story, but I do have bits and pieces of almost everyone around. I may take a mannerism here, expression there, perhaps a way of talking or physical appearance, but the things I use from one person rarely goes into a single character. The other thing people often ask is if this is my first story (which it is not, though I feel it is my first REAL story since it’s the first one that seems alive to me). They also ask if I have ever published anything or if I have ever posted any of my work. I did post a few of my short stories on a friend’s site a number of years ago, but to me those were rather pathetic attempts at writing. I do not feel comfortable posting excerpts from my current story as of yet, since it is not complete it seems like publishing a rough sketch of a painting prior to fleshing it out, loosing some of the mystery of the art by showing it ‘naked’ as it were. I think a similar effect occurs if you show someone totally nude and then show sensually clothed photos of them. You wind up ruining the mystery and taking away a part of the enjoyment.
Still people have encouraged me on more than one occasion to publish some of my work and I think perhaps I will start with a poem I wrote in August of 2004 after my mother died.
The quiet seeps into me like a cool cloth held against all my fevered pain.
The silence and strength that holds me is a comfort, soothing the pain held inside.
The ache eases and though the sadness is still there,
it is softened by the comfort of those strong arms holding me in silence.
A comfort more than words, a quiet communication of support and concern.
This is what love really is, not just a sharing of joy, but also an easing of sorrow.