At the moment I am in the process of writing the 4th book in my Sekhet Series, which began as a Saga. But hey (shrugs shoulders) Who’s counting? While I love to say that being a writer is the best job in the world - right now it is proving itself my nemesis. Not me per say, but my mind. My awareness. My desire to aspire to greatness. I witness the words, I can describe what they look like, what they would sound like, what they could taste like if that is the case. But can I get my brain to liberate them? Big fat 'Not on your life.' I call my husband and say "It sounds like this word, it signifies this, represents this, implies this." And he proceeds to list out a variety of words, and for the most part he actually hits on it.
I recently read in an online comment by some stranger that having MS is a death sentence. Is it? I don't see it in that way. Maybe I'm just too terrified to admit that this person was right. Maybe I should write about it, but then what? Again, I hit on the foundation that while I write daily, combat with my legs on a regular basis to do what I tell them too because I need to get to work, I nevertheless return to the fact that while I love to write every day, every so often my own brain denies me the right. Isn’t it funny how the one thing that should be there to aid you through life, can now disallow the one thing that has kept you going through the worst days to happen? I sit at my laptop for an hour at a time, place my fingers on the keys, and look out the window. The things that race through my mind are wonderful. Stories of war, love, pain. Still my fingers don't move. I see the characters, hear their voices and still my fingers don't move. I guess this means that these stories are just for me and what a shame that is.
I bow my head to those who can sit and write their own story. Their personal memories good and bad. Would it open up your mind to other things. Would the memories that cram the space between your ears be gone, only to be filled with something new and exciting? That is a question for the scholars. Can you actually replace memories once placed out into the dreamlands, the abyss, no longer to be retained, locked away for your own personal use? Sometimes I do wonder if that would help a heart to heal? To forgive. To allow distant memories to fade, until they are no more, lifting a vale of darkness and betrayal.
My illness, my struggle, my tears, my laughter. And even as I write this, I smile and think to myself, "That story is mine, and mine alone." The truth is, there are somethings better left unwritten, the battle of one’s life is a personal one, that once spoken is no longer your inner most powerful secrets. It is no longer yours; it belongs to the Universe and every living creature in it. Besides, today my brain would not play nicely. It allows snippets of ideas, and nothing more.