Ahh. I am back. Back to writing. It has been far too long, my love.
Okay, enough with the theatrics. It’s just that I haven’t written anything in so long… I started to question my existence as a writer. But then I realized that was silly. Of course I am a writer. I was born a writer, as much as I was born a woman. It is not a thing from which one escapes. Well — at least not without a lot of work…
I have spent the better part of this year making excuses, blaming life for my unexplained, unintentional hiatus from writing. But today, I read a quote that altered my perception:
“Life can’t ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.” ~Edna Ferber, A Kind of Magic, 1963
I am indeed in love with writing, perceivably more than I’ve ever been in love with any other entity (daughter excluded). Thus I say to you, life: be my lover. Embrace me in my triumphs, and squeeze a bit tighter when I fail. Serenade me with the beauties of our love. Stare deeply into my soul, as I penetrate your very essence. Life, be my lover. But remember, writing is my soulmate.