I spend a lot of my time driving around.  There are meetings with clients, exhibitions, art openings and now additional responsibilities as I assume the role of Public Relations Chair for AIGA CT.  It seems I’m always in my car.  Once I get home there are my kids, and their friends and their friend’s friends.  There are 3 cats and a variety of musical tunes coming from every room.  So when I get the chance, like tonight, to be at home alone… it is bliss.  I usually remain in total silence.  I have no music on, no TV. I’m happy to listen to the clock in the living room gently ticking.  The cracks and pops of house noises.  I light a lot of candles and I am able, finally, to breathe deeply.

It is this solitude that I need when writing.  It is this solitude that brings me peace and the writing which ensues allows me to express myself in words that issue from my soul.  Sometimes the words fit together so nicely, I can’t imagine who wrote them.  Sometimes the words come so dreadfully hard that I know who’s writing them.  As I reflect on the weeks events, on the art or design I’ve seen, I’m able to assimilate the colors, the patterns, brush stokes and typography and if given the opportunity… it is in these moments of quiet I am able to absorb what I’ve seen and let them become a part of me.  Writing allows me to again reflect upon and then express my thoughts. It helps me sort things out. Sometimes it seems that if I don’t write things down I haven’t actually experienced them.

The stereotypical writers life sounds so romantic.  A fire crackling in the fireplace of some cabin. The writer at her desk, with a bourbon or red wine at her hand.  Outside the rain drizzles against the windows… or perhaps instead it’s snow. Our hero, a solitary figure, toils away late at night pondering an angle or perhaps the newest character.  “It was a dark and stormy night…”

It’s still romantic to me. I love being a writer despite the fact that I fought against it for years.  And sometimes it is, in fact, the stereotypical things that I bring to my desk.  But beyond the blush, there is a bigger matter at stake.  Reality.  As a writer with deadlines and obligations I am not always able to find the solitude.  When writing for a publication, there have been many times when music is coming from every room (I wear earplugs), my cell rings or beeps relentlessly, or I am rushed because of an upcoming appointment.  There are more days than not when the words will not come.  There might be art that I do not like or issues to stand against no matter the controversy.  I must speak my mind. Writing is labor intensive and it is not for the faint of heart.  But the amazing thing is when a gallery whom I’ve reviewed calls me up, or sends me a handwritten personal letter, expressing thanks for a review I did.  “We had 60 people come into the gallery this weekend because of your article.”  Wow… The awesome power of words!  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Bullshit they won’t.

Writing has the power to move the universe.  It can cause people to do things… or not.  It can bring you to tears of sorrow or make you laugh with unbridled joy.  The act of weaving words together in a most perfect way can be headier than drugs.  It is for all these reasons, the good and the bad, that I call myself, finally, a writer.