On Literary Intimacy

Since before I could write, I've always had some sort of writing implement in my hand - pencil, pen, crayon. Drawing and writing are like breathing. There's magic in the scratch of the pen across an empty page and something sacred in the flow of spirit through the ink. Yes, the modern world has added a keyboard to the tool chest, but I must confess that much of what ends up inkless with me started out with that traditional magic of handwritten script.

So, decades have passed with gallons of ideas poured out on paper- stories, notes, poems, letters, journals. Everything from shopping lists to love letters have made their way through my pen, and I've created whole worlds full of joy and anguish to satisfy that part of me that needs to write. I've heard it said before that a writer can't not write, and as clumsy as that sounds, it's completely true. Shutting off that valve just isn't an option.

So, where does that undeniable urge lead me today? The answer, as it usually does, has its roots in yesterday. Through most of my life, I've had pen pals. Some have been geographically close, some far away. Some were passing relationships, and some were friendships as deep and meaningful as any two people could achieve. I am who I am because of the souls I've touched through this art of writing. Their ink has enriched my life as I hope mine has enriched theirs. And, although the time of many of those relationships has come and gone, and we have slipped away from one another, we will always be connected through the literary intimacies we shared.
Lately, I think back on the closest of those friendships and long for that pure connection. Certainly, my life is not lacking in face-to-face friendships, and I am fortunate to have friends and family who can discuss all sorts of philosophical and spiritual topics. The ideas that float through our heads are readily shared and freely explored.

But, I am a writer.

There is a level of thought that can't usually be reached in the immediacy of conversation, a depth of expression that can only be satisfied through the written word. I need to be able to tap into the core of me and turn on the valve, and more than that, I need to find that resonnance again and let a few new souls in to touch that core, too.

Here's the tricky part, though. You can't make it happen. All of the closest friendships, written or face-to-face, have come my way almost by accident. Trying ensures that the relationship is clumsy or strange.

We slip into intimacy.
We fall in love.
We can't force friendships.

But, suddenly, we notice that the universe has positioned the jagged edges of our souls in a way that locks us together, if only for a moment.

This isn't to say that we must be totally passive and let the world come to our doorstep. That accident of intimacy often comes as a result of following a spark, doing the spontaneous risky thing that breezed through your mind for a moment, smiling at a stranger.

So, here I am. Smiling. Letting you peek at pieces of my soul. Sharing literary intimacies.
Absorb what you like. Comment if you want. Pass along whatever shiny bits you find, or better yet, the scuffed and worn bits. That's what literary intimacy is all about.