The Writer

“2 AM, Really?” She thought to herself, as she awakened in a blaze of heat.  Tossing and turning as the heat arose from her center to her head and then down toward her legs, she wrestled her sheets and comforter to the side.  Her husband, snoring away, as if a whole forest needed to be leveled, didn’t flinch.  He continued with his rhythmic pattern while she tossed her legs over the side of the bed and dragged herself to the closet in search of some slippers.  Normally, she would just grab a glass of cold water and return back to bed, in hopes that the coolness would hit her core and eradicate the hot flashes.  Not this time.  The words kept flooding her mind, invading that peaceful place and pushing her toward the computer to dump those thoughts onto the glaring, white screen (modern paper) of her word processor. 

Feeling her way down the stairs, she realized she didn’t have her glasses.  She returned to the bedside table until she felt the cold metal and glass frames in her hand.  She descended back down to the kitchen and through the family room without turning on any lights.  Noticing all the little green and red lights, signifying the power button of an electronic device or time on a clock, she wondered if every household was this colorful or well illuminated, without ever flipping on a light switch. 

Grabbing a tall glass from the cupboard, she hovered over the coffeemaker, debating whether a cup of coffee would be a good idea at this hour.  She quickly quelled that thought and turned toward the refrigerator for the pitcher of cold water in the door.  This would certainly help hydrate her before the diuretic effects of her morning coffee, would do the opposite.   Finally settling down at the computer, she let her fingers do the talking, while the brain dumped.  On one of her runs, she pondered about writing and recalled these words flowing through her head, “The ability to write requires the organization of scurrying brain impulses, which we call thoughts.”    

Nearing 3 am, she thought, “that’s too profound for this hour of the day, I really just need something to return me to the slumber of my bed.”  What was bothering her?  It could be the 5:50 am wake up time.  After getting accustomed to awakening when her body told her, early morning meetings were still a struggle, particularly when they were infrequent, as she feared that she would sleep past the dual alarms set to awaken her.  Even still, she didn’t think this was the trigger. She may have believed that it was the proximity of her “last infusion” on her mind, except that she still had two more days and nights to ponder over the implications of that.  It flashed, like one of those silly pictures with the lightbulb appearing above the cartoon character’s head.  Over dinner with friends, a multitude of topics were canvassed, from gun control to school curriculum, but one topic lay dangling inside her head. 

Upon leaving her friends’ home, she nearly forgot her purse and lying next to it was a book that her friend had recommended reading and loaned to her.  “Opposite of Loneliness” was the title.  The author, a 22 year old graduate from Yale University, died 5 days after her graduation.   The book was produced by her grieving parents who wished to honor their daughter by publishing her many writings.  The story, not only intrigued, but struck a chord.  Writing was her passion.  Her words sang melodiously as you read them.  And yet, Marina Keegan’s dream, was snuffed out by a car accident in Cape Cod. 

The reality of a fellow writer, being taken from this world before her story could unfold, was likely the culprit and propeller driving her to tap away at the computer at this early hour.  Just like the 50 people senselessly murdered in a shooting spree in an Orlando nightclub over the weekend, we never know when our time on this earth will end.  We never know when the inspiration for our writing will run dry or the passion fade.  As if Marina Keegan was reciting the words herself, “You must continue to write,” swirled through her head.  “I can’t get lazy.  I can’t stop writing.  My book must be written before I pass from this world.” 

Why?  Why do some people feel compelled to write?  She couldn’t really answer this question, as the reasons changed depending on the day.  After hearing about Marina Keegan, she would say, “to inspire people.”  Inspiring people to pursue their passion, to make their mark, fulfill a dream or encourage enthusiasm in their daily lives is a start.  It more likely than not, stems back to that 7 year old’s dream of “helping people feel happy.”  This was the reason she had pursued a career in medicine.  But now, she saw that writing can impact more lives than can be touched in one day at the office. And, as much as words, either spoken or written, can be vicious or painful, words can equally evoke a fervor inside or generate feelings of love and happiness, in both the author and the reader.  Translating words to feelings is an art, and if God provides the talent, it is the job of the artist, to show their work to the world as Marina’s parents did by publishing her work. 

As the typing slowed, she knew that it was time to put the lid back on the well, before it dried up entirely.  Although there were only 2 hours to go before the alarms would jolt her back awake, she felt content to return to her slumber.  She could close this loop for today, knowing that Marina Keegan’s story had been told.  Despite her death, she still provides inspiration for others, through her writing.  

To write means more than putting pretty words on a page; the act of writing is to share a part of your soul with the world. ~ Unknown

If a story is in you, it has got to come out. ~ William Faulkner, American writer and Nobel Prize laureate.