Funny thing happened on my way to becoming an author, part one

I was recently asked the question: Aren’t you giving up an intimate part of you when you write?

My answer? Yes and no.

OK … OK … I know … that’s no answer and it sounds like a cop-out. But the truth is, it is yes and no. Maybe I am giving something up. But then again, maybe I’m not.

It doesn’t feel as though I’m losing anything.

To my way of thinking, it’s feels more like digging way down deep inside and accessing it. Certainly, once my words are published, they will be shared with the multitudes - and, God willing, the multitudes will keep up their end of the bargain (my bargain, anyway!) and partake of the sharing - but I never think about that when I'm writing. I never think about what’s going to happen to my words later on.

I think if I gave that part of the process - what it might mean once my readers have my words in their hands and then in their minds and eventually in their discussions with each other … if I stop to consider my audience … I might be inhibited. My writing might be inhibited.

Oh, mercy, I hope that doesn’t sound self-aggrandizing! It’s not meant to. It’s just that I write from a place inside me which is so primal and profound, it’s honestly still a mystery to me.

When I write, I don’t really think about anything. In truth, I've learned that I do my best writing when I get out of my own way, mind my own business and just let it happen … in other words, when I don’t spend too much time thinking about it. When I just let it flow, the story and the characters seem to create themselves. And those seem to be the phrases or the paragraphs or the chapters of the story which move me the most - even when I go back to them several months later.

So, am I losing some intimate part of me? Am I giving something up? I don’t believe so. It never feels like “giving”. It feels more like praying.

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