It is comforting to sink into the world of written words. Whether with pen and paper, or the computer, writing offers solace as a retreat from life’s stress. Words await my direction, placing themselves in precisely the order I ask. Yet, they also suggest alternatives and nuances as I engage their primal rhythm. It brings a sigh of contentment. A smile, too. Better than hot chocolate on a cool June evening.
It wasn’t always this way, this love of writing. Although early in life I attempted various forms of written creativity, it is only in the last ten years I have done so regularly. In the last five years I have taken it seriously.
Maybe it is the safety of silence which soothes me, cocooned as I am in my private writing lair. While I am continuing to learn to embrace social opportunities with increased frequency, I feel most at home in my makeshift hermitage in the city. It is a quiet place to retreat from the demands of work and church. A retreat into poetry, prose, and music.
Currently I am penning a poem, while also re-engaging the long-suffering characters of my novel. Today I realized my intended protaganist has deferred that honor to another character, one with an honorable upbringing marred by a tragically errant recent past and subsequent redemption. Meanwhile the poem–patterned after a Malay Pantoum– beckons, and I must respond.