2 Corinthians 5:17
King James Version
17 Therefore if any man be in Christ,
he is a new creature:
old things are passed away;
all things are become new.
I worried for a while.
My writing had morphed.
Where, before, I’d write longer sentences by themselves, or within paragraphs, all of a sudden it’s all changed.
That’s just been a year ago, maybe less.
As my thoughts have expanded, the words have compressed.
That was a very strange thing, for sure.
This piece you’re reading, is but a sample of how it is now for me.
Not that I’m complaining, but what can I do?
My writing merely took on another form.
It’s as if, after hundreds of blog posts, and dozens of blogs, and a few self-published books, my writing said, “Can I show you something else?”
Of course, it didn’t wait for an answer.
It showed me right away.
Short bursts of prose.
Precision, using the minimum.
They say, “Simplicity is mastery”, but I think in my case, it was “mastering the simple”.
It was not a difficult re-education.
If anything, it was a lovely showing-off of this new writer who took over my soul.
The writing had become faster than ever, more confident, more exact, as if using the precision of line, form, and structure I had learned when I took up Architecture.
Never did a day come that I envied my architect-friends.
How different I had turned out from them.
Not that I mind, for I always was.
When you pursue your father’s dream, you are not on the driver’s seat.
But now that I finally go full blast in my work as a writer, uncategorized, but faithful to my voice – my now telegramatic voice – I can only give myself a warm hug.
I was cut out to be a writer.
I can handle solitude.
I never had writer’s block.
If anything, it was writer’s hemorrhage.
I was bleeding through.
The ideas came in droves, and sometimes, I have to remind myself to sleep, even for short periods of time.
The mind was just so alive!
Even as my writing had become telegramatic, it created different twists all the time.
I think, a true creative writer can be given one word, just one word, and volumes would spring from that one word.
May I be so boastful as to say, I am that kind of writer?
I don’t know why.
I just am.
And I don’t wish to be anyone else.
Words have become my toys, my building blocks to figuring things out.
I write, basically, to share what I've learned.
I write, to figure things out, on my own.
I write, to explore.
I write, figuring out something in my mind, making the whole process progressive, and evolving all the time.
And, I'm always led to a "conclusion".
Even I surprise myself.
I was supposed to have been an architect.
What am I doing as a writer?
Soon as I asked that, of course, the answer was simple.
I love words.
So much so, that each word has become a nugget of gold for me.
That’s why my writing had become telegramatic.
One word can stand on its own.
All happy words.
Full of God and Spirit.
Maybe that’s really what happened.
I now have a feeling for the divine.
Finally, I am now my own writer.
And all because there’s really only one word I meditate on.
When you have awe, you have something.
When you have God, you have everything.
(Image source: Oleg Magni)