Write a thank you note . . . either for a tangible, or intangible gift, either for a gift you truly liked, or something you saw as annoying or difficult at first. . . but later saw the value or the good of the gift.
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Write a thank you note . . .Prompt #103
Ke11y
To anyone who understands what is written below, thank you. Truly, thank you.
So many very talented writers come and go on the earth and never, not one time, are celebrated with a published novel. The science fiction writer, the poet, the romance writer, all are common enough, you only have to walk into any library to see how popular writing is. Doesn’t it seem like everyone is doing it? Of course, this isn’t the case and anyway very few people, relative to how many write, ever do it well enough to receive enough money to live on. So let me just pass this along, writing takes courage, and it takes tenacity, and more than anything it takes understanding, and guess what, it’s not the writer who needs to understand, but those people who care for the writer.
When I write, I need the security of love and understanding, for the fact is I will be gone much of the time. Yes, gone. Not out of the room, not across an ocean, just gone, to worlds and places and thoughts none but I can experience, and when I return I need to be loved, to be certain, because sometimes when I get back I feel damaged.
I don’t know for how long you’ve been writing, or to what extent writing is important to you. I know enough about me to know this: writing is my expression about things that hurt, console, confuse, and amaze me. Which is why I know that I need someone in my life, to hold me; to understand my ‘absence’ and be there for me when I return. Someone to laugh with, to dry my tears, to tell me that it’s okay, everything is okay, because I’ve been away, and writing can take me very far away.
There will be times when someone I love very deeply can be sat ten feet from me, and yet be seven universes gone. Writing is lonely, and yet writing is how I connect, how I communicate, and how I love. Writing is how I find a way to touch people. Writing will come and take me away, wring me out, and set me apart.
My characters often want me to go in one direction, and my ability want me to take them in another, they will fight me all the way, but worse, some will become favorites. Oh how I learned the danger of a character taking me over, such a nice character, so amiable and friendly. This is the day I sit here and kill that character stone cold dead; Take him out and do away with him, for this character is leading me, becoming my master, when writing itself is the master.
Writing is lonely. Writing is fun. Writing is creativity gone mad. Writing is all there is to life one day. Writing is the sickness that will kill you on another. Writing can be so sad that all I can do is ask those who love me to hold on, and never let me go.
mcullen Post author
Kelly, I have read a ton of articles, essays, poems and so on about writing, but only a few get to the heart of the matter like yours does here. Your writing is rich and soars with emotion, truth and authenticity. I appreciate your honesty and am thankful for this vessel as a place for your writing to reside. Thank YOU for the gift of you and your writing.
heartmom
I’m overcome and can think of nothing clever to say, Kelly. As a musician, I can get lost in my music. As a writer, I am striving for what you have, and only beginning to scratch the surface…. you are like a musician of words and feelings and stories. Thank you for sharing your passion with the rest of us.
mcullen Post author
I agree with Heartmom. Kelly, your words are music to my ears and soul.
Ke11y
Marlene:
If you see your role as someone who lifts the writing spirit, know that I’m writing this from the ceiling, having floated here on your words. I wish there was something greater than thank you.
mcullen Post author
Kelly, the greatest thank you is that you keep writing! 🙂 Really!
Ke11y
Heartmom, thank you.
Your words inspired me.
The Musician.
It’s cold in San Francisco as I leave the hotel room. A car has been sent for me. I feel very important. The city appears to be hanging beneath a damp, swirling mist, which softens the edges of roofs on the far side of Union Square. I get into the car, and as we drive through the gray streets, onto Van Ness toward the Opera House, I take my music papers from the briefcase. My stomach feels queasy, empty, and my heart is full of anticipation…the kind of anticipation one feels when meeting a prospective lover for the first time, wondering if her kiss will be as sweet as her words. It is just a ten minute drive to the Opera House. I get out of the car and look up at the imposing structure. Inside I’m met by a receptionist. She is very polite, asks my business. I explain who I am and why I’m here, but she seems unsure. My legs are shaking, my heart thumping, my head is light, dizzy with growing fears. Will my music really be all it seems to be in my head? I am about to find out. The door opens. It’s Tim.
“Com’on, HM, (this is his nickname for me) what are you doing sitting here?” I stand, shake his hand. He still looks like the college kid I met all those years ago at music school in Padua. His hair still fuzzed, his jacket worn, and weary…it has to be his favorite. In twenty years, I never saw him in different one.
“I was asked to wait here, Tim.”
He laughs.
“We’re all here waiting for you…are you nuts?”
Together we walk out of this small room, then along a corridor.
“We’ve had two hours rehearsing, HM. We just need your approval. If we have it, well, we’ll record today for sure.”
My nerves are dead. There’s no feeling left. Two years work about to be heard in its entirety. I feel tearful. Tim senses everything. He put his arms round my shoulders.
“It’s beautiful, HM. It’s a beautiful piece of work, the boys in the orchestra love it, com’on.” As if he means to reassure me, but causes the tears to flow.
“Really, do you like it?”
He laughs heartily at that question. “Com’on, we’ll see if you do?”
As I enter the hall, I’m met by a vigorous tapping of violin bows on music stands. I nod, almost embarrassed, trying to hide the tears.
Tim sits me down in the stalls, then heads to the rostrum. The lights come on over the musicians. Tim stands, looks back at me one time, and raises his baton. Gives a nod to the lead violin.
“Gentlemen, let’s do it for the composer….”
He counts down with his baton.
The strains of music well up from the Irish flute, then accompanied by the violins, and the ‘The Albatross’ becomes my reality. I’ve lived my life for the sea…being close to it…understanding…adoring its complexities and sinking into it. Two years in the writing, and now my ears are being filled with the musical strains of waves, of wind, and wonder. To understand its calmness, understand the notes she plays when happy, and the percussion of her fears, to admire its vastness with sweeping violins, to explore its depth, hearing the Oboe, and to feel that piano solitariness known to lone sailors, or lovers on the shores, watching the sun seemingly die in its depth. I watch as I study the musicians in their work. Rising from their skill comes my life…everything I ever felt…every moment the shoreline held this wayward child…every forward glance to every new horizon. Just a man and his music. A man knowing that his work is done, and now he’s letting it go…as a parent lets a child go to the first day of school.
The work must now stand on its own. Stand for love.
mcullen Post author
One of the things I like about your writing, Kelly, is the unpredictability . . . the surprises. And how specific you are. This story could take place anywhere. But being in San Francisco adds to the allure. Union Sq. and the opera house add elegance to the setting. You people your stories with unique characteristics (Tim and his “His hair still fuzzed, his jacket worn, and weary . . . ). And the composer. . . we get to know him up close and personal, feel his apprehension, share his qualms. And then . . . the last two paragraphs = exquisite. Lovely, happy, sweet conclusion. Wow. Simply wow!
heartmom
…and you, in turn Ke11y, have inspired me. I’m still organizing my “musical thoughts,” but what you wrote has compelled me to write. Thank you and stay tuned 🙂
mcullen Post author
Very clever, Heartmom.