Being Read

Thoughts tumble out as we move,
like ghosts in the air desperate
to be seen.
Loose and aimless, crying to not just be written, but read.
To be seen, 
spoken, 
heard.
Touched by eyes, by a sweep of a rapt finger.
Scenes and faces sparked to life in other minds, attached
to other perceptions and emotions,
given broader meanings, given worth.
By being written,
rooted and grown.
By being read.
                          -L.Nahay









This describes much of the reality of being a writer. Since getting RMOS published, I took a fairly extended sabatical and read. I've been reading a lot. I ended last night's book with a welcome, returned anxiety. Time to write again! RMOS #2 is crawling beneath my skin, itching to be let out. Writers are never far from paper and pen. They're scattered everywhere, so we can catch those thoughts, those scenes, those converstations and emotions before the air carries them away. I keep a variety of notebooks. I suddenly remembered- and needed- my most recent one. Enter the crisis. I moved at the beginning of the year, and hadn't a clue where I would have placed it. Wrote something of an SOS on my other blog, and panicked all night and day. Where in the world had I left it? Found it this evening- in a box I kept telling myself it couldn't possibly be in- (big, big sigh) and flipping through the pages, I rediscovered the above. Enjoy :)