Absence

Fourteen days is a long time to be absent. Two weeks of non-communication and silence. Do I apologize? Do I list my reasons, my excuses? Do I stop altogether or slink back and offer up my belly in submission? Or do I simply pick up where I left off and continue?

I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.

I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.

So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.

I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.