A writer’s life is spent entering secret passages and opening doors. If the passages are too dark or dim, I might take the time to turn around and go back to look for a light. And if re-tracing my steps feels like it is too long ago, I might simply feel my way with my senses in the darkness. After all, I might trip over a flashlight and kick it into life or develop human sonar or spy a flicker of light down one of the corridors or develop a seventh sense. Anything could happen in these secret passages. After all, I am the author.
If doors are locked tight, I may start to hunt for a key. Or not. If looking for a key feels too time-consuming or futile, I might resort to one of those battering rams that you see in movies that involve crooks and the FBI. Boom. Open sesame. It’s up to me. I am the author.
[pas·sage (ˈpasij/) noun: the act or process of moving through, under, over, or past something on the way from one place to another.]
There are just so many remarkable words in this sparse definition. Act. Process. Moving through, under, over, or past something. On the way from one place to another. Sometimes I forget or take for granted or don’t pay attention to the ponderous weight that each word in our lexicon — any language’s lexicon — bears. These varied words that writers place on the page bear a nuanced message that goes far beyond the symbols and morphology that transcribes experience into imagination.
Writing. Socrates believed that writing was detrimental to the mind — that by writing something down, we have essentially dulled the mind’s ability to remember what is important. Being a writer, I look at the written word differently. Writing allows me to see my soul reflected back to me in a way that other experiences and relationships can’t. It is a solitary journey perfect for the exploration of secret passages. And my muse seems to like the secret passages the best.