by Karen E. Rigley
Midnight finds me writing. That’s what happens when you’re a writer–you write. At odd hours, strange times, different places – wearing nothing but PJs, dressed up for a party or clad in faded jeans and barefoot. Scribbling, typing, editing – writing, writing some more, then rewriting. It looks crazy to our nonwriter family and friends. So they label us crazy writers. And it’s true.
I’m a crazy writer. That’s essential to who I am. I belong to that strange breed called writers.
A writer must write. It is an obsession, a job, a dream. Blank paper challenges us to create and communicate. We are both artist and slave — grumbling when we can’t write and grumbling while we do; planning the next writing project and praying to complete the current one. We may be writers by choice or writers by accident, writers full-time or part-time, beginners or pros, but every one of us shares the passion to write.
So midnight finds me writing.
A lifetime is not long enough
to drain the pulsing tide
flowing from the reservoir
held in a writer’s mind.
I drift through the colorless ocean of writer’s limbo,
aimlessly floating upon a sea of nothingness.
Has reality encroached too far
shipwrecking my creativity?
Has continuously pondering the fate of manuscripts
drowned my productivity?
Have the recent crisis and chaos of life
battered and marooned my muse?
Waves of limbo lure me away from my writing.
I unresistingly follow like a sailor searching the seas,
mesmerized by the siren call of mermaids.
I ignore cries of unfinished tales.
Ignore impatient ideas swimming through my mind.
Ignore imaginary voices floating upon the waves.
A flame flickers above the horizon,
igniting with the intensity of a lighthouse beacon,
beckoning me back to the harbor of my computer.
A writer tries to view
life in various facets.
Such ability becomes
one of our greatest assets.