I half-jokingly describe my writing as glorified journaling.
As I shared yesterday, I journaled from a young age and would address and summon “Journal,” a larger than life spirit that wholly accepts my deepest thoughts without judgement or ridicule. Journal is an entity that is almost 30 years in the making, and while I no longer start my writing with “Dear Journal,” it is still very much the spirit in how I write and my heart and mind bring them in as I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.
My glorified journaling is my art. That is still hard for me to say but the self expression that comes out is the equivalent of leaping expressively across stage, playing a riveting concerto or painting a breathtaking watercolor. When I go back to re-read my writing, I am often surprised by what words have come together and made their way onto paper. I even question if it was my writing at all, like in this piece.
In wondering how my words come to life, I realize it is almost as if that Journal/God/Spirit has held that space for me. It is only through the relationship that I am able to write, and the interplay of my entering that space allows my words to flow and for that spirit to speak through me.
So who is the creator? Me or Spirit? Is there anyway to really differentiate between my and their contribution? And ultimately, does it really matter?