|What is a writer? This question I pose to you if you never thought about it or have been crafting words for decades. It is time that I answer this question for all to behold. There is something within the words that so many miss and yet, long to find. It is a dimensionality within and foregoing time itself finds the answers of self. It is the reality of a human aspect that we have trouble finding. Yet a writer finds it. For all of the things in a life, a single life, the moments combine into a world before you, but of this world it is for you to find; this piece of self a writer gives.
It is standing alone upon an unknown stage in a place never seen. Holding out your hand to the void or to the masses. In open palm a piece of self for all to see. A word, a thought, a process, an idea for the unknown soul to behold. With eyes closed waiting for someone or something to pick up that piece and make it part of them. It is giving and unforgiving of self for the things which make us a whole. It is learning oneself with an unbiased exploration through the course of a life because writing is also about self exploration. The difference between a writer and just a thinker is that a writer is willing to give what they have found; this makes writing even more of a precious gift.
A writer in their words gives the reader pieces of themselves. A selfless gift from a being which struggles to survive under the flesh of a person. This gift is unlike any other you will ever find in your life. These things a writer gives at times is so very hard to tear from themselves, yet they do it for you to have for eternity. It is a message to the universe unheard and heard. It is the sharing of a world for without you would never experience in your lifetime. It is a perfect gift of self to be tossed aside, examined, picked apart, criticised, thrown around. For if you could remove your own heart and hand it to someone, this is what a writer gives to you.
I know not if there is a love greater or a gift more precious than pieces of self. I have found not anything like it in the universe in all of the years I have been critiquing and reading, and writing. It as if the world of self writers give is another dimension, and I often wonder if it is in the complexity of the universe indeed another dimension. If it is you are living experiences of a being unseen by the world. If it is not, be it simply this gift of self. If it is another world created can you find this world without the words to get there? If it is another universe in a place very real yet unseen does a writer share their eternity with you? If it is not within another dimension this giving life exists in, perhaps it is just a dream shared.
To the unknown you can follow me.
In the far off distance beyond the oceans cold grasp a castle upon a snowy shore.
In but an instant you can see the white stones in the pale light which surrounds you.
This dream echoes the song of waves gentle tide upon the shore.
Now near you stand; the turrets stand gardless just as you do now.
The drawbridge down for any to enter.
Courtyard of but red flowers glinting, unaffected by the cold surrounding you like a steel gauntlet.
What is within you wonder, this door ahead slightly open, creaking as you enter the warmth of this long hall.
Stepping within the torch sconce glows brightly.
Flames scented strawberry wine in their peculiar orange glow upon the wall.
Within, the warmth of a mothers love on the warmest spring day.
Here the cold has no grasp upon you.
But what is that sound now, a whisper of world in the making?
I stand before you, someone you never saw before.
Reaching out with one hand, but without a sound I tell you welcome.
Can you hear me speak with your eyes?
I have been waiting for you as I stand before you.
I have waited for you as I wait for you now.
Now you are here we walk down the hall.
Unspeaking to eachother the silence speaks volumes.
To a room within this warm castle in the snow.
Before you lies a place in the dark which seems so vast you could walk forever.
In the distance you see mountains, before your feet a field of green.
Birds sing in the trees swaying in the breeze as you stand within my forrest.
I step forward and turn to you from a place not beside you.
In my eyes you see my smile, and my goodbye.
This is my home and your visit, though welcome has ended.
Back to your chair you move, not but shock or pause.
Now you realize that I was in this place with you.
Even though when you were there I was nowhere to be found.
Now you see that though I spoke to you I never saw your face.
Only in this moment can you see that the place I live within is now a part of you.
Without an instant of myself I stood before you to behold.
Now within your waking dreams this castle and within greater than without.
Within you it resides for you to venture throughout your life.
Yet now it is found far away from you;
Our place, it is so close you can touch.
Any moment in time you can always return.
To the place I have given to you.
The room within a castle which held a universe to behold.
This is part of me for you to have, a gift of myself to take in your journey of life.
This is why it is important to teach writing. This is why it is important to read. This is why it is so very important to recognize that when you read you understand a person, no matter if they are a professional writer or a person writing to you. Because you are being given something from within someone's soul, unbiased, good or evil. It matters not if it is an email, a letter, a correspondence, a poem, a story. When we write we give pieces of ourselves, this is inescapable. When you critique do it with love, if you cannot relate, let it go. If you have a reader response it is generally because the writer gave you the pieces correctly; be this the judge. If not you have no reader response, thus, the end comes before the beginning be it for lack of understanding or lack of relationship.
I love to critique people's work, for in each there is always something I can find of a person, even if but a sentence. At times I have been accused of invading someone's privacy, yet I find either understanding or not, truth or not, evil or good. What you are, is in what you write, and I can see your soul in its true form when I enter your world. (2010 - 2012 TMx)