The most odd ball thoughts fall from the tips of our pens before the sun rises from it hiding place on the eastern horizon. The term “odd” is usually determined by a first level critic; self. Far worse than most bosses, easily entertained for three point two seconds then let the hacking begin. Words from the within are crunched, munched or deeply scratched off of the surfaces that which reveal only the things we wish to release.
All too often we give permission to writing to be nothing more than an act of letting go. Love letters are what you find on the web or wanna-be Hallmark cards you picked up ten for buck plus tax. The physical instinct of retraining yourself to find wisdom, travel and design in the words you hide is so 1999.
While at Levine Children’s Hospital I was allowed to gently rub my fingertips over the prayers parents placed in a book when having such communication was the invisible needle in an extremely large haystack. I could feel their impact dug into the surface of an unexpected day.
As the reader, I was pulled into the paragraphs like a Disney time machine classic that shoved my feet knee deep into a chapter I knew nothing of yet the unperfected relationship between the parent and my eyes felt much warmer than a freshly built fire on an extremely cold and snowy day in Carolina.
A picture presented in writing will always make it to the soul intended.
My mother still uses a blue Bic pen…her slightly slanted to the right cursive style is the type of music required to help heal the most common of colds while laying nifty cool toys under a Christmas tree decorated on one side because Dad is too lazy to reach around to the back.
The single completely unrehearsed thought that lifted its dorky head from the ink stains on the tip of my favorite writing instrument was, “Don’t be happy for Christmas…just be happy.”
Enough said…would love to write more but the level one critic sits way too close to my writing hand.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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