Writing and Birthing

Writing is like birthing. A story is conceived in the depths of me, waiting to see the light. But it does not take shape, not quite yet. I let it grow within me for a while to let the thoughts find its fuel. I walk through the every day and carry it around. At first it’s easy to keep within, light as a butterfly. 

As time passes, as the force finds its way to me, the story becomes fuller. The mind contracts, desperately searching for the right words. And when thought and language finally meet at that sweet spot, there is that great urge to birth the story. So I put pen to paper, pounding on the surface till the words take shape. It’s a wild, overwhelming act but I am doing it, so naturally. 

Writing is in my bones and whenever I don’t make the time to put pen to paper, it is a tragedy. I know that stories aren’t told, ideas aren’t shared. The absence of that is felt like the absence of a babe — where is the narrative, the life, the soul? So just as I push when the babe wants to see the world, I write to tell a story.

After deep exhales, after searching for the art within, it is finally there. A living, breathing thing; a work of art.