Ever since I can remember I have had this passion, this crazy love affair with writing instruments, particularly pencils, pens, writing pads, paper. But my love of reading and specially that of writing exceeds all. A passion so wild and crazy that after even a few minutes of writing I feel totally transformed and in harmony with the world around me. As E.L. Doctorow writes:
“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”
Simply stated, I am much happier when I scribble, and sometimes even manage to write something worthwhile. Writing is like breathing to me, and deep down what I had really wanted in my life was to become a writer one day.
I have made it a habit to write early in the morning so that the peaceful calm will carry me throughout the day. I sit at my desk as early as five in the morning, sometimes even earlier, with a mug of coffee in hand and start scribbling on the white blank page in front of me.
On any normal morning in the past my late husband would also be awake with me painting in the adjacent room. I would write with the door open and would hear his music in the next room. He would then ask if the sound was loud and whether he was disturbing me. From time to time I would hear him whistle along with the song as I would hear him swear or sigh out loud depending on how the stroke of his brush was carried out. A short while after I would see him standing by my door. He would ask if I had a moment to go and check whatever he had finished and see if I could find any flaws.
I have his photograph on my desk now as I sit and try to write. I sit there for hours even after the kids have left the house. I sit and listen as the silence gets louder. I sit hoping, wishing for him to disturb me. Sometimes when the phone rings it startles me and I shiver. Because a telephone in a quiet house sounds like an alarm bell. Then I feel so bitterly sorry for him and realize that work is the answer to my problem and that I have to write no matter what.
I write. I put down words on my page, simple words. And then from these words I form sentences and from these sentences I form paragraphs and before I know it the pages fill. I lose track of time and I write and write.
“I write. I write that I am writing. Mentally I see myself writing that I am writing and I can also see myself seeing that I am writing. I remember writing and also seeing myself writing. And I see myself remembering that I see myself writing and I remember seeing myself remembering that I was writing and I write seeing myself write that I remember having seen myself write that I saw myself writing that I was writing that I was writing. I can also imagine myself writing that I had already written that I would imagine myself writing that I had written that I was imagining myself writing that I see myself writing that I am writing.” Salvador Elizondo