January 25, 1994
Writing as Transcendence
I’m writing fast. Otherwise my creative process may dry up. Is that possible? Can mere distraction can turn my field commander into a corpse?
Who is creating?
Or is it God through me?
He calls out the words, passes them through my mind, hands, fingertips, and into the computer.
If this is the creative process, then I have nothing to fear. I am simply doing what comes naturally, speaking through the transcendent voice. An eternal whisper haunts my being. Great strength drips down from the transcendent.
But it is difficult to remember, difficult to reconcile. What part of me is transcendent? Right side, left side, front side, backside? Eyes, ears, nose, throat? I think not. The transcendent, my eternal part, is unseen, unheard, beyond touch, taste, and smell. . . even beyond thought. When my material self disintegrates and vanishes in a spasm of death, my transcendent will hover over my corpse, have a good laugh, then move on.
Where it will go? Perhaps it may tour distant planets and galaxies, or vacation on a distant beach in another universe, or move into another body. But I will always be in touch with it through my writing as its words, sentences,and ideas sift through my hands.
Thus, there is no reason to worry, to write fast or slow, to wonder if my creativity will suddenly dry up. How can it? It’s part of the universe.
Even the thought of drying up is part of the universe.
Voice Of My Future
Writing is the most important thing I do, even though it makes no money.
It brings me to higher places, uncovers higher ground.
The sounds of language passing through my mind make me feel just great!
Gifts rain down when I write.
Writing clarifies meaning and purpose. It is a calling. Am I afraid to face it? Wasn’t Moses afraid to face his calling, afraid of the responsibility and burdens of leadership? Finally, he accepted his destiny of his talent and followed his path.
I am ready to follow mine.
Rise each morning. Write your hour! Create your most important hour of the day.
This morning’s voice sounds strange, foreign, wild, yet full of discipline, a cry from the wilderness, a powerful hibernian wind gusting from arctic heights, blowing away old forms and creating a clearing for the new.
Where will writing lead me?
I do not know.
But I will follow the voice of my future.
Falucca Of Perfection
One of the Egyptian mysteries is the remembrance of perfection.
How do you reach perfection?
By walking the broken road of imperfection.
Witness the name of the Nile river boat falucca. I knew the word lay hidden somewhere deep in my memory. Had I waited for it to rise correctly spelled from my memory bank, I would have waited hours. I would never have written a thing. Instead, I fished for the sound, misspelled it again and again. Finally, when the time was right, it rose instantaneously and mysteriously from my inner computer. Then it sprung from my mind and jumped on the page. Perfection!