Posted on August 20, 2012 by billyraychitwood1
Artists find favorite spots to paint, by the sea, in a park, on a mountaintop, or in a kitchen (thinking 'still life' apples, bananas, cherries here because I’m hungry for them). Writers must need their favorite spots as well.
Most of my writing has come in the last twenty years, much of it stored in 8″X10″ cardboard manuscipt boxes until one was published in 1995. The others have been dormant until just the last few years. When I reached the Sea of Cortez, it seems my need to write increased along with the desire. And, write I have.
There are nine books finished now, eight fictional, one non-fiction with just a few final touches left, and another ficttional manuscript just recently started. It has dawned on me what the artists have apparently known for all these years, that just maybe writers must find a spot that agrees with their make-up, their health, their moods, their changing priorities.
I’m convinced that the sea is my favorite spot, because I’ve never enjoyed the ‘flow’ of writing that I feel here, the phrases that seem to effortlessly come out and please me. ‘Pleasing me’ might have to be enough for those phrases might not find the same measure of enjoyment in others eyes. Guess what? That 'pleasing me' might be just fine because the 'ride' was great. Just about all of me will be there in those books for those who might care to know this southern man who chased beauty and demons all his life. There is no doubt parts in my writing where those who care to know might have to read between the lines. With the writing experience I had that big marvelous sea, a wonderful wife, and that far-off horizon that beguiled me during every moment of the process. Perhaps that should be enough for any man.
I find myself wondering why this is so, why one can find a spot where writing becomes more natural and rhythmic in its outpouring. Perhaps it is because I can see forever out there in the distance along those deep green waters, and my mind is free to roam toward that endless space and grab from the passing zephyrs those little gems of words and phrases that go by as though on currents of their own. Perhaps it is because I do not feel hemmed in on all sides so my mind is keenly aware that the horizon and all beyond is mine but for the asking of my imagination. Pehaps it is because it is so beautiful here by the sea where the villas touch the sand, where the hawkers sell their wares among the sun worshipers, where the jet skis, sail boats, yachts, and the yellow ‘bananas’ toss the squealing young adults into the choppy waters.
Whatever it is, the transparency of my delight must surely be obvious. I’m a wordsmith at his favorite spot, doing what it is that he perceives he does best. My only wish now is to have my writing enjoyed by many, as many as I might be allowed by the God of that horizon on the glorious Sea of Cortez.