I am writing my life.
Not literally, not yet at least, although I hope to get there at some point. But in the every day, in the choices I make, I sculpt the words of my existence. In stringing them together – as Shakespeare taught with consonants to punctuate meaning and with vowels to express emotion – I write.
(And on really good days, I create songs to sing.)
These things called books.
Last night at work, I wrote in my journal. I am definitely not supposed to be doing this, but I had the time and needed to be responsible to myself. My heart was hurting at the end of a budding relationship, my first attempted since leaving my ex. It ended abruptly. I felt betrayed in trust. I turned to words to understand. They told me what I already knew, reassured me, comforted me.
These things called books are sometimes of the air, invisible but older than time. Destiny has a bad reputation, it feels so heavy, iron-bound and I am a believer in the errratic, ectsatic human mess (at least for me it is often a mess) of free will choosing. But there have also been connections made of late where words were not needed. I am remembering the beauty of friendship. It feels rather special to be able to feel someone far away without having to write a line, as if fated.
In my mind’s eye, I can see my book starting to form (even if there are days, many, when I leave the pages loose lying around, I walk over them unnoticing on the floor). If I open the cream cover, I can nearly trace what is written on the dedication page with a pinky finger: “This is dedicated to…loving myself.” And oh, that feels so vulnerable that at times that I am ashamed of it, I want to erase, erase, erase but I can’t, for it is written in gold.
This breath, this moment, I just exhaled. I am here, I am here and I am writing my life.
And oh, the stories within.
Love you.
I am in my journal. Not more for the moment…
Hm. Love to all of you above.
Oof. Bonne année et bisous.
Good luck, and write that book!
Your photographs are so beautiful and your writing is exceptional. A photo journalist genius. Travel agencies, Architectural Digest, Elle Design, Vogue, Harpers, The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The Economist (to name a few) could use your talent. They need to know about you! Susan
Heather, it is such a logical path forward. You are a weaver of words. I'm sorry the budding relationship ended as it did, but your love affair with words and those of us who read them grows stronger and deeper. #writeon
Ditto!
I know you meant this figuratively, but literally, too, yes? We are all writing our lives, but you are truly writing yours! If you don't ever write a book (but I think you will), you have THIS – not only your words but your gorgeous photos which speak volumes! This alone is big – a mark you have left – giving us joy, imploring us to slow down and notice the beauty. And still so much to say, right? Exciting – all the possibilities…
A new year and a start of stitching words into sentences stringing to stories, a “life story”. Congratulations.
“Take one page at a time” John Steinbeck says ““Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day. It helps.”