In the beginning...

In the beginning was the word. The passage known as the creation story in the Bible, existence itself. The word as the beginning of everything. Infinite possibilities. It is what is.

Imagine, having the power to give people a whole world - a creation story. Isn't that what authors do? Create universes for other people to experience - bringing worlds alive through words?

Sleepy eyes open on a Sunday morning. The lazy heaviness of staying in bed, not in any rush to go anywhere. The pull of a computer from the other room calls my name, wanting to create something. A ball of tension rests in my chest, tightening with each passing second that I don't write a word. There’s also a strange heaviness that rests on my shoulders. As if I’m Atlas, holding this world on my shoulders and it will not be released until it’s shared in writing. I share something with the creator - and the ball of tension releases as I type, word after word.

Sundays are now a ritual - a stressful event in some moments, in others writing flows naturally. It’s a practice that breaks up the routine of everyday life, and allows me, as an adult, be okay with daydreaming. The thoughts and ideas that flood my head during the workweek are written down on sticky notes and collected in a small folder, only looked over on Sundays.

I’m no Dostevesky, but that’s okay. I just know that when I hear that call, that inner pull that gets tighter and tighter, I must create something. Sometimes that pull can be lessened with painting, with cooking, with coloring, but it can never be released. It’s only after I can share the thoughts in my mind that I feel truly alive, bringing to life the characters that keep me company until I can finally say goodbye to them when I press publish.

I don’t know if this creative endeavor, writing, actually gives me joy, but I do know that I’m restless until I start writing. My attention is completely taken over by the computer in front of me and the ideas that spill across the typing board. The coffee cup gets cold, I have to get up several times to reheat the cup, the thirty seconds of watching the cup rotate are the only times I take my eyes away from the screen.

Caffeine, sometimes nicotine, are my fuel sources for this endeavor. No food, that adds to the heaviness feeling. Although I may not receive complete joy from writing, I do experience a momentary sense of peace afterwards. A weight of one world lifted off my shoulder.

During these thirty second rotations, I sometimes wonder if my writing is a form of escapism. I often write at the most difficult points of my life - during college when I had to wait in line to give plasma for extra cash, when my grandma was sick and we had to say our last good-byes, when my dog was attacked by another dog and I came home to her lifeless body. Great moments of pain that I don’t want to experience, I often write.

I also wonder what pushes some of the great authors to write. Did Hemingway smoke cigarette after cigarette, wanting to share the worlds he created but never quite reaching that goal? Or did he not care, knowing the ideas and themes, although not perfect, were still meant to be shared and readers could keep whatever message resonated with them? What about the critics? Did they care what the critics have to say, or did they too just feel this incessant need to create and that’s what mattered over the fear of failure?

Whatever those answers are, I just know for a brief second after I punctuate the last sentence, I have a moment of peace.