The Funky Faucet
When I was little I didn’t realize that not everybody had
stories. I thought it ordinary to have whole worlds, scenes, characters,
complete with scents and expressions; the conflicts;
running on a nearly endless loop inside one’s inner eye. By the time I discovered
it was unique, that I was unique, I had developed an urge, a desire, a craving
if you will, to write the stories down. It started early; the earliest I can
remember I was in kindergarten. I couldn’t even write the words myself; I asked
my teacher to do it for me. I dictated, she scribed, and a writer was born.
That was the beginning as best as I can remember. For over three decades
this…[I hesitate to use the word compulsion as I infer a lack of control in
that word and I prefer the warm fuzzy feeling the illusion of self-control
provides]…need to see my words in print has driven me. But it’s more and
somehow less than just that. There is an emotional release in the letting.
Sometimes I picture my imagination leaking like a funky faucet and the imaginary
drip makes me anxious. I used to itch to grab a pen, now I itch to type. And I
love scratching this particular itch.
That's an interesting little memoir! Sometimes those itches need to be scratched! Especially when your imagination is flowing like a funky faucet, much less less just a drip! Sometimes you just gotta embrace your anxieties and go with it!
ReplyDeleteThanks. It's a nagging urge at times that *must* be indulged.
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