Bridging the Gaps

 Someone once asked me about the process I use to write. I responded with, “I write in an altered state of mind.” Of course, the next question was, “What does that mean?”

Here then, is a description of what works for me. I would love to hear what works for you.

It starts with a tickle at the back of my brain that momentarily catches my conscious attention. I sense something new—a surprise—or something different—a challenge—or something creative—a story—though I cannot immediately say which it is. I assure myself that something is afoot, and I tuck that awareness somewhere near the tickle. Meanwhile, I wait for night dreams and daydreams to work that tickle and that awareness into images that cause me to want to write. This incubation period may be hours, days, or weeks. I never know.

The tickle, the awareness, the images, and the desire do not convey meaning. They create a vague idea that wiggles itself into preconscious spaces, where symbols begin to construct themselves—words, phrases, sentences—but will first draw me to the office, the chair, and the keyboard.

Those symbols, still nebulous and dimly perceived, require a virtual page onto which to unburden themselves before they become a story. I know that the story will be one I have neither heard nor planned, but it will be my truth.

Once my fingers touch the keys, my eyes close and turn upward to rest just ten degrees to the right of the center in the sixth chakra. That energy point connects my physical being with the unknowable. I surrender to the bridge—an altered state while conscious—where I can write. The words spill onto the screen, each presenting before I can comprehend them, and I lose myself to the evolving story, though I will not understand it until it is told.

No longer a private activity inside my body, the words on the finished story on the screen chisels itself into consciousness. I realize I have bridged the gap from writer to reader. Still, there is no one privy to this personal space but me. That feels safe.

 When I stop writing, whether the piece is long or short, I bridge another gap—the written word that demands to be heard. I do not leave my computer until I hear my voice read and transmit the creation to the airwaves. I remember that our technical world can be a voracious receiver that hears and records. That feels somewhat risky, though it carries an edge of vulnerability that melts away.

When the piece pleases me, I ask a few of my closest friends to listen and respond. I know they will be gentle and honest even though they may not be as thorough as I need. This feels adventurous. It reveals a subtle anxiety about letting go of what I believe to be the truth of my writing in preference for understanding the truth held by the readers. That moment of hearing or reading a story—mine or others'—is where I discover the intense comfort of being a member of a tribe that requires shared stories to build and maintain a civilization.

I would love to hear your story and learn about the process you use when you write.