Spill it out, the inner muse cajoled. Spill it all out onto thirsty, droughty paper. To poetry. To story. To song. Every day; whenever I command you. No experience this life-crushing should escape the wrangling, the torrential processing and the paradoxical beauty of the mournful, pitiful, brooding, faithful pen.
For no such experience, if put in the hands of a writer, can truly elude its preordained transformation from spirit slayer to renewer of life by the one who's been entrusted with such wretched torment to offer it up to those parched and poised to drink from the flood of written imagery and raw artistry born deep in the isolating pit of grief. ...
For no such experience, if put in the hands of a writer, can truly elude its preordained transformation from spirit slayer to renewer of life by the one who's been entrusted with such wretched torment to offer it up to those parched and poised to drink from the flood of written imagery and raw artistry born deep in the isolating pit of grief. ...
Such were the demands of my inner muse following the death at birth of my first child 20-something years ago. I knew she was right. What ensued in time were my fervid commitments to "honor the muse," "take dictation" from her and not "plug up writer's flood" -- all notes-to-self you'll find sprinkled within my quotes for fellow writers -- as I set out on the well-worn, yet somehow always mysteriously new, writers' path.
And such are the challenges recently dropped before Sydney Scrogham, a Virginia-based young-adult fantasy writer to whom I took an immediate and exceptional liking between the time I reviewed her manuscript for Chase and the end of our initial phone conversation to discuss her publishing dreams and goals. Perhaps it was the voice of Providence whispering of a deeper connection forthcoming: Shortly after Sydney entered our Emerging Authors program at Koehler Books, her first "baby" also died. He was her beloved horse, Blue. I read about his passing in her blog at www.sswriter.com .
Those of us who had already been encouraging Sydney to expand upon her everyday experiences as a writer in her blog are now witnessing something deeper and more prolific and profound, in her own post-loss re-commitment to "the muse" as only she can experience it, process it and transform it in the months and years to come. I look forward to her articles, which roughly alternate between being helpful and generously raw -- whatever the muse dictates in a given moment.
So, Sydney, it's with a strange sense of aslant privilege that I gently welcome you to a new level of writing -- one marked by the fogs and flashes of grief and the new depths of faith and insight that unfold from it all. Be prepared that from this point on in your own path, no heavy stone will remain unturned by you; no innocent leaf will linger unstirred as you pass it; and never again will a simple thought lack the inspired threads of the past, the present and a unique understanding of infinite implication. Grief does unexpected things to the heart and voice of the writer.
May the process heal and raise you as you bare your soul for the love of Blue and others who come to "read" it.
Those of us who had already been encouraging Sydney to expand upon her everyday experiences as a writer in her blog are now witnessing something deeper and more prolific and profound, in her own post-loss re-commitment to "the muse" as only she can experience it, process it and transform it in the months and years to come. I look forward to her articles, which roughly alternate between being helpful and generously raw -- whatever the muse dictates in a given moment.
So, Sydney, it's with a strange sense of aslant privilege that I gently welcome you to a new level of writing -- one marked by the fogs and flashes of grief and the new depths of faith and insight that unfold from it all. Be prepared that from this point on in your own path, no heavy stone will remain unturned by you; no innocent leaf will linger unstirred as you pass it; and never again will a simple thought lack the inspired threads of the past, the present and a unique understanding of infinite implication. Grief does unexpected things to the heart and voice of the writer.
May the process heal and raise you as you bare your soul for the love of Blue and others who come to "read" it.
RSS Feed
