I have never been able to conjure words.
I am a good writer. I think. I’ve been told. When I write people seem to connect with my thoughts and words. I am unsure if it is because I write like I talk, or because what I have to say is universal. Either way, people seem to like it.
But I cannot do it on demand.
Sitting here in a writing class, where there are 30 minutes of silent writing, I wonder if I am in the wrong place. I think back to the times that I want to blog about something – anything – and get tongue-tied and draw a blank. I often wonder how “real” writers do it.
Every now and again the urge to write hits me when I am near a computer or a pen, and I can get it all down. Mostly, my ideas come at night, as I am drifting into sleep. When I’m too groggy to sit up and write them down. I mistakenly think that I will remember them in the morning. But morning comes and the thought is hazy. I know what it was, but it is no longer clear in my mind's eye. The power of the words is blurry much like my early morning vision.
I wonder if others feel this. I wonder if there are people in the world who are good at something but just can’t tap into the place where that creativity comes from. I wonder what steps can be made to tap into that place.
As I watch the snow falling outside my window, I wish that my mind could build up the words the way the snow gathers on trees. Turning a naked branch into a full one – not with leaves, but with a million small and beautiful snowflakes. I wish that my thoughts would flow out of me freely whenever I ask them to, rather than when they want.
Perhaps it isn’t to be. Perhaps the creative writer that lives in me is only meant for the occasional outburst. Which I should accept. After all, I am creative in so many other ways that I can connect with – I can conjure. But this one – this writer inside of me – deserves a place at the table. Doesn’t she?