Last night I had one of those dreams where you wake up and think “What was that?” Look, I know, everyone thinks their dreams are really interesting. Meanwhile their audience’s eyes are glazing over and their chins dipping in that sort of polite bobble-headed nod. But this is my blog, so …
I was in a writing seminar. My editor and some sort of instructor were at the front of the room. The question posed was something like, “What is it about writing? What’s the important thing? Why do you do it?”
I’m called to give an answer. Stand. Grandly announce, “It’s all about the words.” I see people shift. Feel uncomfortable myself because I know this is not a real answer. It’s just one of those writerly answers that we use to sound very important and deep.
I hold up my hand. “Actually, it’s not just the words.” I placed my hands on my midsection–just over my diaphragm. “Writing opens the third eye that resides here, in my gut. That eyes sees the world more honestly and clearly than my real eyes.”
And that, my friends, is the real answer.