Seeing through the dribble of what comes through the fingers and what I know can come through the fingers is something I’ve tried to do. I stare at the blank page every night, its whiteness like a snowy mountain top waiting to be climbed. Once the fingers hit the keys I feel the creation of a symphony begin. I am Mozart, Beethoven. I know where things lead and where they stop.
Once the words come, they never stop until I’m sore, tired exhausted like I’ve finished a three hours set in front of fans. Though my fans are invisible they stare out from behind books they haven’t read, pages I haven’t written things I haven’t published. Their hands haven’t touched the bindings of my books. Their eyes don’t yet know my characters. I wait for them to see what I have I watch with ever-present eyes.
It is this symphony that I wonder about, this thing of striking the keys that makes my heart flutter. I wonder if it is my medication, but know something else is afoot. The story has pulled me in. I am circling the page like a raven for the carcass. I see it laying in the road ready for me to pick it apart and feed.
“What is this wondrous thing?” I exclaim as I feast on the carcass.
My body knows it, my souls knows it and then my heart knows I’m almost done. The symphony is nearly over, my brow is pouring with sweat. My fingers blistered and aching. I lay my head down for a moment, then it is over. The symphony has concluded and I’m asleep.