haitus hurt ending

Writing is one way I define myself. I am a writer. When a writer chooses, not through writer’s block, but really chooses to stop writing to pursue a different way of life, I thought I would be left with a hole in my life, that I wouldn’t feel complete in some way.

However I discovered the opposite, I still had stories running through my head (for those Eurovision buffs, running through my head, running through my head) but instead of stopping to write these stories down I let them go. They ran right out of my head to the story cloud somewhere beyond the rainbow.

I was travelling last week and started to write again, quite naturally, sat in a cafe, sat in the bar, sat propped up by lumpy pillows on a lumpy bed. It was as if I had not really stopped, the pen did not run dry and I completed the first exchange of an on-going saga.

I am a writer, but I am no longer a stressed out writer with deadlines, I have rediscovered the beauty of putting one word next to another and another and making a sentence. God gave me the gift of writing, of being able to get under the skin, scratch the surface. We can all talk about the weather, I was reminded of this in Adare yesterday. Weather talk abounded, till I said one phrase and that opened up an entirely different conversation. It was good. God is good, all the time.

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