Writing is fun. There is something to be said about seeing that word appear on paper, brought to life by a combination of desire, analysis, and courage. To make it analogous to giving birth, desire to write lies at conception of the word. Following the conception of the word within the soul, still undefined, still shapeless and unnamed, the process of analysis is the pregnancy. From what is seemingly nothing appears a form. Inside that form is a beating heart and a soul of its own, but at that point the heart and the soul are still inside of you. Courage is the labor. The word is released into the outer space. In a complex motion of twists and turns, the pen in your hand erases the white off the page to give way to the new word until it pours out of you to the last drop and becomes its own being. And the next cycle begins.
Some words are born healthy and are meant for a long happy life. Some are weak and eventually may not make it. And some are stillborn.
Every time you write you communicate, but not to another person. At the point of writing no one is there to read. Most of the time, no one will ever be there to read. At the point of writing, the newborn words are received only by the page on which they appear. The page is the conversation mate, one whom you courageously trust. The page takes the words and keeps them for what may be the longest time until it is destroyed. And destroying it is not easy, not after it agreed to receive your words in gracious silence that you took for a yes.
Writing is cozy, it makes the soul heal. It is the warm throw you wrap around your feet on a cold winter day when the sun is bright enough to give your soul energy to create but not warm enough to make you comfortably lazy. Your words are your friends, they wink at you like glowing coals in the fireplace, filling your heart with joy and your mind with peace. When the word comes out and gets situated on the page, the world seems complete. What used to boil and bubble inside is now an orderly, dainty, and beautiful mark that means something.
Writing is like drinking wine and enjoying the well aged taste. It is not to be rushed. There is a certain guilty pleasure in letting your hand slowly shift along the page as your pen quickly moves back and forth covering it with a blanket of text. One moment it stops, indecisive, within just a short distance from the paper, suspended, waiting; and then, as if on a whim, the pen and the page touch; and before you know it, the page needs to be turned.
And as you turn the page and begin a new one, you feel like you've just made another friend, so you turn the page with love, knowing that no amount of new friendships will ever compromise the old ones. You will stay forever faithful to every one you've ever written, and they know it - and as you turn them, they cozily fold up like grandmother's clothes in the old chest. And there they patiently wait to be reopened so you may visit with them again and again - as long as you care about writing.