The best part, for the writers, is getting to lick that batter-filled spoon that no one else will get. Only we know the secret ingredients that put everything together for them. Only we know how long, or how quickly, we were able to craft it, and only we know the pain of simmering, baking, or slow-roasting it to perfection. We're the ones who get burned, who retched after that first batch (which we hid in the breadbox behind Aunt Marva's salted sugar cookies from last holiday season), who sampled the finished product in our sleep thereby birthing the masterpiece before attempting to make it tangible.
Only we, the writers, understand what it costs of our souls and our thoughts and ultimately, ourselves, to write for someone else to read. For someone else to sample, taste, and experience. And we await their response, with bated breath, hoping the best, fearing the worst, and petrified of whatever answer they give.
I meant to simply make an appearance. I wanted to announce that I'm alive, though I wish I weren't; rather, that I would choose to skip the week, as it is my finals for the semester. However, I've been moved to talk about the desire to create and why it is that I love it so much. It is never easy, and not once have I noticed a painless endeavor in my writing. Carefree, perhaps, but never painless. Yet I still love it so.
I think perhaps that the need to create, the need to share myself overwhelms me and I must write. Perhaps, even more, it is because for my entire life most everyone claimed they could not understand me, who I am, and how I think. Perhaps, it is to connect to them, and ultimately, myself. If I write, perhaps then, they will finally understand me, who I am, and how I think. Perhaps. In the meantime, it is nice to keep the mystery about me. This works to my advantage when I desire the element of surprise.
If only the realm of surprise wasn't so lonely at times.
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