Sometimes, I wonder. I wonder about my future. My past. How my life would be different if things had not happened the way they happened. I wonder about my books, my computer. My writing. The voices that fill my head. I am always wondering. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, sometimes. And then sometimes I do.
I see these voices in my head and on a normal day, I will wonder who they are, what they’ll do. Their worst fears. The voices talk back to me, answer my questions. And as I fill the page with words, I wonder what it took out of me to write all of those lines. Usually, when I wonder about something, I find my answer. I can imagine my life differently, my world. But that one question, I can’t answer. And so I keep wondering, keep writing, keep looking in amazement at all it took out of me to write all those pages.
And when I stop, when I wonder, I cannot answer myself. Not in words.
Sometimes, I find my answer not in the thoughts that swirl around and fill my head but in the very act of writing, ink on paper. The musty smell of a new book. The way the sun shines through the windows, or the way the crows line up on the telephone wire, high above the ground. They’re jostling for space, pushing each other off. And how one bird sits on the wire below the rest, happy, content, dozing. And how happy I am when I turn it into words.
If I wonder about it, I have never not found my answer.
I have never been left wondering.
But now, all of a sudden, I have.
The voices haven’t left me–oh, no, if anything, they’re as loud as ever, Breeze, Fury, Lily, Talim, Jo, Viola, and a horde of other names you’ll never recognize–but something else has. And it makes me wonder if I have it in me anymore.
If I have it in me anymore, to write.
I have always wondered, and have always been answered. And I have never given up.
But now I wonder, and I do not have an answer for myself: if I left my manuscript there, happily wasting away in the gloom of my desk drawer, would I ever be able to do it again? Would I ever be able to write again, or would my entire life–oh, all those countless hours–simply fade away, until they are nonexistent? If I cannot find it inside myself to write, what will become of me?
Sometimes, that is why I write: because if I stop, I might never start again. And at others, I want to stop. Because I wonder what will happen.
Want to know what I’m wondering now? I’m wondering if I’ll ever be brave enough to try and find the answer.