Sarah Cowie

As a writer, it’s days spent telling myself I have something worthy to say, something that must be heard by others, something that is relevant which will change the lives of those who read it. It’s hours spent staring at a blank page on my screen, squeezing out a sentence here or a thought there, dredged up from brain cells constricted by the day to day honey do’s and life’s events that crowd what little space I have in my overstuffed schedule as a full time employee, and parent. It’s hours spent organizing and reorganizing my to-do list on my phone that never seems to get done, or rearranging my furniture for the tenth time in the same four spots to give my mind something to do, because my brain won’t allow me to put down one logical sentence on paper, much less a whole paragraph. When it does, it barrages me with all the crazy thoughts, feelings, and images that have been rolling around in my head for days or weeks, keeping me up at night in a desperate move to try and get me to put it all down in black and white as quickly and as logically as possible before the thoughts disappear into the ether, leaving the space between my ears a scattered mess of jumbled letters and words again.

But, on those incredible days when the words burst forth from the recesses of my mind and splash across the keyboard, moving my fingertips like a Maestro moves his baton, bringing together each note, and rhythm, each word and sentence, controlling the tempo with the flick of a finger or wrist till the words blend into sentences, the sentences mesh into thoughts, and the thoughts into stories filled with characters, plots, laughter, love, joy, anger, beginnings, middles and ends. Then, like childbirth, the pain of giving life to my thoughts, my characters and stories fades away, and I’m left with only that slight twinge I overlook until the next time.

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