Dear Writer, On Writing

Dear Writer, Go & Make Magic

Dear Writer, Go & Make Magic

Dear Writer,

You hold infinite words and hopes inside you. This is your time. Spill them, let them all out. Know whatever you’re working on–it’ll be okay. You’re stringing stars together, forming constellations with words.

Enjoy the work and shake off the Resistance. Your work is still valuable whether anyone reads it or not. Do it anyway.

Go & make magic.

Delve into wonder and beauty. Stand under the stars just to hear them sing. Dip your toes in a river, walk barefoot through the forest, let your body root in and and anchor to the pulsating earth.

Write–pour your heart out, but keep some words for yourself. Not everything has to be seen to be of value.

Learn to love your life with all its disruptions. These too are a gift.

Go out and live, dear writer. Go explore and laugh and cry. Read good books, recite poetry in the rain, cook good food, laugh aloud. Often.

You are not chained to this desk, this journal, this device–go out and live! Taste the magic, spin around in it, get your fingernails dirty.

Then, come back and create.

This is your duty, this is your joy–to be a weaver of words.

Enchant us with your wonder and pain, your love and joy. Enchant us with the way you see our world and tell us of the worlds you see. We’ll be here, making our own magic and we can’t wait to see yours.

Go!–spill the stars! Plant seeds! Weave words! Splatter canvas! Do the next thing:

Go & make magic.

There is a treasure inside of you–the kind you’ll share and the magic you’ll tuck away in your soul just for you, the kind you’ll pull out on a dreary day that gives spark to new life. Leave bits of your magic on post-it notes and scraps of paper in hidden places you’ll find months or years from now–memories and clues to lead you back to this moment when you saw clearly with hope and wonder, joy and possibility. You’ll need them on the hard days, on the days you’ll doubt whether any of this means anything.

Go live, then come back and create.

Don’t chain yourself to a desk. Don’t worry too much about the perfect word or character arc or the exact steps to revising. (pssst…there’s no one right way) Do the work in front of you and in showing up regularly, you’ll dispel the fear that it can’t be done.

You are doing it.

Show up to the work and make magic.

What is magic, anyway?

It’s wonder and enchantment. It’s inspiration and beauty. It’s the normal, everyday moments that are precious. It’s the sense of being filled with such clarity as if one hundred light bulbs turned on at once. It’s light filtered through clouds. It’s smiles and laughter. It’s awe that plants shoot out of frozen earth to erupt in flowers. It’s that tug in your chest that this moment is even better than you could’ve asked, but you’ll try to capture it somehow–to hold it still in eternity.

Magic is diligence. It’s hope. It’s showing up to do the work. It’s not without toil, but when you regularly feed the magic, feed your soul, your reserves fill up and you can drink deeply.

And lastly, dear writer, magic is knowing you are beloved and walking in it.

So, go–& make some wonderful magic.

We’ll be here, making our own magic and we can’t wait to see yours.

For the last few years, I’ve given myself a monthly creative challenge. In 2019, I wrote a poem at the beginning of every month centered aroung gardening and growth. In 2020, I made a flower crown with flowers from my yard, donned a dress, and took twirly pictures.

This year I was a little stumped by what to do. It took me a little while, but I decided to write a letter to writers. In truth, these are letters of what I want to hear, what I need to hear, as a writer. And starting off the year, I need to hear that yes, go write and create, but also go live! They each feed each other. I hope you enjoy them and go make your own magic.