Do you ever find yourself missing a long passed loved one? Do the memories bring you back to a time, when they are quite vivid, and you had sat together and laughed, or shared a conversation? All the feelings come flooding back to you. This is the way it is when I write. I visit my longtime friend, Mr. Pulp, the writer within. I have to write because of those feelings. Feelings about anything, just feelings. All emotions, happy, sad, tired, angry. The writer inside of me talks to me all the time, sharing ideas, giving me advice, laughing at the silly things I write or the silly mental play that goes on in my head. When he isn’t awake, I’m sad and hurting. It’s my warning sign.
Our relationship is very close and very personal. I can’t think of any one person that I am closer with. When times get too emotional or difficult, or too funny not to be documented, that writer within, jumps into action. “Put it on paper, put it on paper, you’ll feel better,” he begins harassing. He just wants me to spell it all out for him. “Spill your guts, spill them onto the paper, free me to create more,” he cries. And, I am more than willing.
I have written all my life and I can recall a period of time that lasted about six years that I did not write a word. As I say that, I think back and realize that I did write a few words, but those were only the ones that Mr. Pulp had no place to store. He had filled my brain with words that I could not get out and he spoke to me and said, “That’s it, you must, you must,” he begged. I dropped a few on the page for him, but they were meaningless. They quieted him for a short time again. Overtime, he no longer called.
I could no longer take the voices that called out to me, voices from each notebook, each genre, voices from within my soul. I gathered them up and said, “Fine! Okay! Let’s have a visit.” I situated myself on the floor amongst the mass of gatherings. I began revisiting each and every one. I sat in tears wanting that voice back, feeling proud of the person that created those pages. I wanted Mr. Pulp, who at this point had went silent, to call on me again; to be interested in me again, to feel with me again. I knew at that very moment what I had been turning my cheek to for those six years. I knew in order to be whole I had to write again.
I sought out anything about writing that I could to refresh. Not that Mr. Pulp needed much prodding. He fell out onto my desk and danced happily. He woke me every morning. He made me stay up late every evening. He had so many words stored up and had to get them out. He refused to leave me alone. Now he has taken me on this journey with birthing my book and I see that I will never again be able to put Mr. Pulp away. He won’t stand for it! Moreover, I could not be happier now that our relationship has come full circle and I am whole again.