If I were a poet I could recite my poetry on a corner.
If I were a songwriter I could sing my love songs in a quiet cafe.
If I were an artist of any note I would take my easel to the river's edge and paint.
But I am a writer. I suppose I could sit on the dock jutting violently into the sea and tell stories but really, who would listen? How would I hear myself in the wind anyway?
I'll never be a busker again, traveling around the word collecting coins in a hat, at any rate.
I've come to that conclusion. And I have to sell my soul instead in phrases and paragraphs and chapters at a time in exchange for an occasional cheque and I don't mind, because I love what I do, I'm very attached to my words and I'm always exclaiming over new ways to put different words together to make my points of note. I love my fictional characters with all my heart. I have cried and bled for them, I have wished some of them dead and refused to allow others to hurt as I had planned, because I was far too wrapped up in them emotionally. Which speaks volumes, it tells me it works.
Because I can feel it.
But I like writing here better. And some days I wish I could just pack it all up and go sit on that dock and tell you stories about myself, about Jacob, about my children and about my life and you might like it. You might stay for a while, you might stay all night and we could build a bonfire on the beach and maybe Jake could sing and then I would have new stories borne out of that night for the next day.
My life is a snowball rolling down a steep hill, a sandcastle in the throes of accretion, a book that keeps getting added to, chapter by verse, word by letter, day by night and it is turning into a story all by itself. And the poetry has finally surpassed the porn because I have never had such a big response to one quiet little post as I did with the one I wrote on Tuesday. Those who have seen the picture and know us and love us were left breathless from the momentum with which I described that time in my life and those I haven't met in person yet were moved to tears and wonderment and for all of the letters coming in from far-flung magical places, the encouragement to keep writing and keep sharing I say thank you. It means a lot when you take the time to tell me you were moved.
Because you can feel it.
Those letters are the coins in my hat. My storyteller hat. Because I always wanted to remain a busker, traveling the world. I didn't realize I still am.
