“I don’t know how to explain my own writing voice. It’s not a thing I can measure.”
Your morning walk from the kitchen to the living room is slow, two hands wrapped around your mug. There are words there, in the mug, in your mouth, in your fingers. You store them like jigsaw puzzle pieces, look for the corners and arrange good sentences around them. This is done quietly in your subconscious spaces even before you say “good morning,” or the “would you hand me my day planner.” Somehow I think you carry a room of your own everywhere you go.
It’s a thing to behold, the way you arrange words on a page. I want to read a book of them; I want to have them in a treasure chest. It seems an act of infidelity–your voice, absent from the bookshelf where Hemingway, Berry, and Manning/Blase offer their comforts. You might roll your eyes at that last sentence, but know this: I could never love their words as much as I love yours. They’ve never followed me past the altar into the great “I do.” They’ve never shared my bed, not really. They’ve not sipped from the same DaySpring coffee mugs. (I just love all of those super-masculine bluebirds and flowers.) And their words, grand though they may be, are not entangled in all of my metaphors.
*This piece written around Amber’s Concrete:An Abstraction writing prompt. Would you join her this weekend?