Living the Writer’s Life
I am sitting in Panther Coffee in the commercialized art mecca of Wynwood being a horrid cliche and writing on my laptop. This morning it called to me after my facial. Go there, leave business cards and ghostwrite for my clients for a few hours. A writer to some degree is a lonely creature. Possessed by a muse that comes and goes as it pleases and an observant mind that sometimes does not slow down enough to function.
None of my friends are writers. They are tolerant of my creativity, but often ask when I am going to settle down and be more realistic about my life. What they don’t understand is this is my life. I spent five years writing my first book. During that time, my focus revolved around it. Nothing else mattered: men, friends or the world outside my limited vision. I look back on that time with a nurturing smile. I was busy evolving into a writer. Something that not everyone is willing to do. In order to be a writer you have to be brave, not certain, that your words hold value and your characters are alive on another level.
Not everyone understands this: intensity of our vision and sacrifices we make to be heard. Maybe I came here for the camaraderie of other possessed. Ones who hear the siren call of explaining humanity to others. It is a lonely life if you make it.
As I write my second book, I am determined to be social and not shut myself away. It is tempting as I did it for so long. But, we as people need other people. Some nights out are going to be dull and others are going to be so unexpected you bury your face in his tattoos repeating thank you inside your head in a protective chant of sorts. The whole thing about writing is being open to receive and when I feel like shutting myself away, I am going to make my way down here with the hipsters and true artists to be seen as I type away like a reemerged Emily Dickinson. The more you run away from life the less equipped you are to deal with it. Be brave and you will become a writer.