It seems as if I am constantly writing. I carry a small ‘writers’ notebook in my purse. I find myself making notes in it almost constantly; in restaurants and coffee shops… wherever I find myself lighting for more than just a few minutes…
Unlike much of modern society, I do not choose to Blog or Twitter my life. I am one of those who still keeps a hand-written daily diary, the entries in which encompass everything; from everyday life to my most intimate thoughts, and my writing.
The reason? Having gone back from time to time in order to read my life as composed in pen and ink, it seems to me that it is there, and only there, that I am able to see with my own minds eye freely enough to be by own worst critic.
… but when it comes to the act of sitting down to the actual work of writing a story, my handwriting reverts to something only pharmacists, … and on rare occasions, myself… seem able to decipher.
Some writers insist that there is an intimacy that can only be achieved when the medium is paper connected to the author by means of pen or pencil; much as an artist might connect to his art through the medium of a piece of charcoal or pencil and a sketchpad. They are welcome to it.
My ‘sketchpad’ is in my own mind. There I can ‘see’ the world I am creating, the characters who live there, and the events that unravel to make the story something worth telling. There I can edit, delete and rewrite in complete freedom until I feel I have composed something I wish no longer to change.
It is then that the arduous process of translating that composition into words that can adequately describe what I see, feel and hear in a manner that allows the reader to do the same.