When I write, I am a mother of language.
First, I have a love affair with the ideas, the words, the images in my mind. I roll them over and over each other. I feel them and touch them in my imagination. I embrace them until we become one, and the poem or the story begins to develop within me.
As the poetry or story grows, I become pregnant with the characters and pictures inside of me. I become consumed with thoughts until I feel that my mind will burst.
Then, the slow, painful process of the birth of writing begins. I must push the words onto paper. I must bring a piece of my being into this world. Now, I can see my work, I can feel the paper, but I have to let it go. Bittersweet. A new beginning. A relief, but the ache of turning loose.
It is a part of me, but now it is also a part of the reader. No longer just a seed inside of me but a link now to the outside world. A part of the world of the reader.
My hope for you this holiday season is that you get to tell your story and to communicate in your own unique way with people you love. Happy holidays, my loves.