It is 9:30pm and I am sitting on the porch at the cottage. A light illuminates my space but on the other side of the screen, which keeps the mosquitoes away, all is dark. Across the bay there is a bonfire and I hear voices of children.
I am in my own world. They are in theirs. My brain is usually too tired to write in the evening. Tonight is different. We have had a week of humid, hot, stay inside in an air-conditioned room. I hate that. It is as bad as wintertime when it is too cold to go outside.
Here at the cottage I change. The air is fresh, the food taste better, I am on the ground instead of on the 15th floor of my condo building. The cottage does something to my soul which I can’t explain. Whatever it is make me feel good, happy, alive.
And so I spent a couple of hours this evening writing my RV book. Revising it. I write it for my husband, to bring back the memories of that trip we took across Canada in 1996. We bought this 10 year old RV that had seen better days. Once it was cleaned up and the motor thoroughly checked out we took it on the road. There were problems. Thank goodness for if it had not been for the problems i would have nothing to write about.
Which means that to write there has to be a problem. My first writing was about my soul problem. That was 20 years ago. It became a 60,ooo word manuscript that I eventually threw away. It had too much of my soul in it. The good thing about writing it was that I became a writer. Not until I could read my soul could I do any writing.
How much of my soul am I ready to write about. A writer must be courageous to put feelings down on paper and write stories to stir someone else’s soul.
Writing makes me feel vulnerable. Why do I do it?