Taking time off to think, or even not to think, is a rich and delicious experience. For one who thrives on writing, it is a difficult decision to set aside the very thing that has defined, throughout my life, vocation and avocation, melding them into one.
Leaving words, sentences, paragraphs, those pesky frenemies behind; freedom ensues, allowing a new dawn, a new day to re-evaluate the why of so much effort, including the why of so much distraction. Is there actually purpose to each painstakingly crafted word? Does anyone, besides me, care how many synonyms I try out before choosing just the right one? How can a person spend so much time writing when the end of it all may just be drivel?
Thinking, thinking, thinking. Slowly and achingly, I reached some much needed answers, and now understand more than before my hiatus.
I have to write. It is of necessity that I put my thoughts, or imaginings, out there, somewhere. They will bang against the inside of my head and my soul until I do. And once written, I must stop being distracted by numbers of people who read, or do not read those words. I care, because it always has been rewarding to know someone else allowed me to touch them, however brief the encounter. But now I realize the number of times I am read cannot, nor ever should, define me as a writer, nor be a measure of my success.
For the duration, words matter. Thoughts, imaginings, tales, truths; they spring up and out as they will, and this writer is happiest expressing them. I appreciate all who take a moment and read; however, worth is in the writing, and that is where I shall keep my cache of treasure. No walls or boundaries, just an Akashic compendium in my soul.