The Writer
The tears streamed down her face intensely as though they were racing one another to the finish line of her heart. Streaming down uncontrollably like Niagara Falls on it's best day, she could no longer see the screen. Her tears had become wild rivers flowing from the ocean of her eyes, desiring to be tamed.
She wanted to give up, for she no longer believed she possessed the gift of writing. She felt as though it had been ripped away from her soul, leaving her naked before life, and useless to herself. Writing was all she ever really knew, but now it seems a stranger who disappeared without a trace within the transitional shadows of life.
She felt as though she had been living in a desert all this time, with the gift of writing existing as nothing more than a mere mirage. A mirage that evaporated into the heat rays every time she reached out to quench the thirst of her spirit, disguising itself as a distorted possibility that something may actually be just over the horizon.
Deciding in her mind to give up and never even attempt to write again, her heart began to tell her something different. Just as she was backing away from the computer, she heard a small voice deep down inside her innermost being say, please don't kill me. It was a voice she had not heard in a long time, a feeling she had not felt in a long time. It was the voice of her dreams beginning to speak. "Don't kill me," it cried out again.
I am your dream, the god given vision that is living and growing within your spiritual womb. I am a spiritual fetus waiting for you to continuously nurture me that I may continuously grow. The more you feed me, the more I can nurture you with grand ideas, and inspiration flowing to endless creative rivers of possibilities.
While I am in your spiritual womb, you must be delicate with me and handle me with great care for I am still very fragile. You have to be discerning as to who you bring me around, and ferociously cautious as to what environments you bring me into . For there are many among you who desire to create spiritual abortions. They are those who wait in discrete places for the opportune moments to kill dreams and strangle and destroy visions. You must protect me at all cost.
Even though it may be painful in your last moments of carrying me, you must be strong and hold on. Your frustration is only the spiritual contractions preparing you for the dilation of life that has to take place before you birth me into full manifestation of the physical realm. Situations and circumstances are aligning themselves in our favor right now and that's part of the dilation process. The extreme stretching of an old life to give way to a new life. In those final moments of your spiritual delivery, it will be very painful, but you must push your way through, and press your way forward. You have been carrying me for so long your muscles are strong enough now to take anything.
I beg of you, please don't kill me, but if you do decide to have a spiritual abortion, you will kill your very purpose and reason for existing. Then you will become a sleepwalker. Physically awake, but spiritually dead. At that very moment the young lady began to write without ceasing.
Published by Tye Martin
I am whatever I am called to be at whatever given time, for I am the representative of my creator. View profile
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10 Comments
Post a CommentI love this piece. I know the feeling. It is a wonderfully written and powerful piece. Excellent work! Sharie :-)
Hehe, I've had days like this. Great work! Very emotional.
Dont Ever Give up. Let God use u through the gift he gave you
Needed to come back to this one because it's been haunting me since last week. In a way it's like it's about writer's block, but in another way of course there is the spiritual side that is probably beyond me. But if it's OK that people take different good things from the same piece of writing, such as this one, than mine is simply that I need to make myself write even when it seems, as an old song said, "my words all come back to me, in shades of mediocricy." -- Mike Again
i love this..it is truly a work of art.
In addition to the note below, I'm thinking of songwriter Loudon Wainwright III. His ode to writer's block is titled "Muse Blues." Some of his words: "I'm a dead firecracker, I ain't got any fuse; I ain't got no inspiration since I lost my muse; .....I'm a table with two legs, I'm a spider with five; I've been waitin' on you, Muse, when will you arrive?....."I'm a flattened out wave I ain't got any curl, I'm an empty ol' oyster I ain't got any pearl; ..... ///// OK now Tye, now in no way am I saying to get the song, but Loudon does have a knack with metaphors. And you may not like this, but Loudon is somewhat sexist in giving The Muse, or inspiration, a female trait: "I've been to the ocean and the desert too, I was there lady so where were you?" ..... and also "Sit up late, stay up wait; it's a rule of thumb, she's got to come." So what can I say, Tye? Take lots of cold showers and go for long walks. Ms. Muse will arrive to inspire you! -- Mike
Fantastic, Tye. We all get discouraged. My saying had become, "I did an article on a fellow who has been a Salvation Army bellringer for 50 years, and can't even get it published in their own War Cry magazine." But now they're printing it in the Nov. 24 edition. No pay, but circulation is nearly 400,000. Newspaper reporting -- it isn't really writing, reporting is different, but nonetheless -- newspaper reporting puts a person on a deadline and forces the output. Sometimes another writer's block medicine is to simply type stream of thought with no punctuation as fast as you can. -- Mike
Since I have the distinct Joy and Blessing of knowing you personally, I take great pride in saying you are as you write. You are so driven from within and you have such intimate knowledge and wisdom of the birthing process of Dreams to reality. Thanks for presenting it in a bite-sized, allegorical way. I get kicks for days!!!!
Writers block, what an excellent story. There's definately something within us that drives us to deliver ourselves through writing. Angelic or demonic, who knows. We only know it cannot stop, ever.
Thanks for the comment on my poem :)
Beautifully written. I can definitely relate to wanting to give up on writing when it seems like you are on the road leading to no where with it. You are right it's a gift not to be taken lightly. Thanks for sharing.