“Writing is art,” she said. “Some paintings and artists offend people. You’ll piss off people. Others will like what you do.”
I sipped my coffee. I know this, of course. I’ve been writing long enough to experience the applause and boos of audiences. Some smart. Some not. Everyone with an opinion. And over time, it builds up. But now, I feel I’m about ready to let it all rip. Tear away the niceties. Let the writing do what it has always wanted to do. Run free. And even if it gets ugly and wild, there’ll be beauty.
I’ve spent so much time over the years reigning myself in that my writing has been too measured. Maybe it’s not about the iceberg theory—making meaning by what’s left out. Maybe it’s good to simply say it straight out. Do what the energy wants. Rip off the band-aid. Let it bleed. Let it breathe. Just let it be. And maybe this change is about more than writing. Maybe it’s about my life.
She is right. She usually is. She is my barometer. My mediator. My meditation. My best friend. And so, when she said those simple words this morning, it meant something. Set off a rush of thought and happiness that will fuel me the rest of the day.
That’s the stuff marriage is made of. Not vows and big, look-at-me events. Not flowers, rings, kisses, and hugs. Not even sex. It’s about having the guts to listen, to give way, to unite so you are strong together or apart. So that one day, when you are wrinkled up, deaf, and blind, you are comforted by that familiar spirit that’s there with you, holding your hand in the dark.