Hard to believe I've been writing seven years. I remember feeling this urge, a compulsion, to write about someone named Benjamin Michael and all his unnamed troubles seven years ago today. Back then, I thought I was, like my protagnist, insane. Later I found out it was merely the muse grabbing me by my female balls and handing me one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.
I had dinner tonight with friends. Three of us, all artists, spoke about how we often felt we had no choice in creating--the creation chose us, we served to channel something greater than ourselves. The energy one feels while in the flow is remarkable, miraculous, and once touched you always want it. The elusivity of the muse is one thing that spurs me on to write, the desire to be consumed by its gift, for most of the time creating feels a futile task, one word marching before the next. Creation at times feels like duty, an onerous task.
I feel grateful writing chose me. I feel thankful for the inspiration, for the dreams and ideas that spawn Benjamin Michael and all my other characters and their worlds. Mostly, though, I am thankful for all of you who read my words, for without an audience, a writer is but a lone tree falling in a desolate forest.