Doors fascinate me. Not just the façade, but what exists behind them, the secrets they house, the lies and truths of what has been and the promise of what’s to come. Life dances behind doors in rhythms fast and slow.
Nobody would call me shy, but I am an introvert. I prefer days curled up in my Barcalounger with a J-Jo (my special-recipe coffee), a good book, and Squeaks to mingling with the cacophonous clamoring of the world. Life behind my door is quiet, and I love it. But how can I be true to myself and my writing if I remain safely ensconced in my comfortable world?
I have to venture beyond my haven to what exists outside of me. To see, smell, taste, touch, and feel. To understand the energy of crumbly bits and discarded gum wrappers.
For many years I kept the door closed on writing. The catalyst for sealing my creativity, imagination, passion, and words in a vault was the unabashed, vulnerable scribbling of my teenage mind – a severed artery upon the page – laid bare to prying, unwelcome eyes. My angst-ridden musings betrayed me, became a self-inflicting weapon. I bolted that door, hoping and praying I could suffocate the story seedlings.
But passion has a way of growing, smothered or not. I removed the locks and tossed them into the refuse of my past. Each day I embrace words, my words, and breathe in the freshness of an open door.
Don’t be afraid to open the door to your heart. Open the door to your mind. Open the door to your writing life and sway across the page in the brilliant twists, twirls, and tumbles of your pen.