What the heck is a writer’s soul?
Just my way of trying to describe the creative place where ideas and passion are first conceived.
Lately, I’ve been hooked on country music, the kind of stuff where lost love and dreams of the past, tear away at the walls that keep the forgotten 16-year-old locked away from our conscious minds. Remember your 1st love? Your 1st fight? Your 1st best friend? The troubled, idealistic Holden Caulfield trying to make the world a more honest place?
Back then we didn’t know or care about Republicans and Democrats, gun control or Gay Rights. We cared about love, friendship, and finding a way to make sense out of this huge, crazy world. We dreamed of a vague future, of glory on the ball field, of getting Betty or Robert to notice us and to reciprocate our love.
The pathway into the past, hidden by the layers of logic that come with adulthood, can be breached by just letting our mind wander to wherever it wants to go. That’s not so easy when the realities of making ends meet, raising kids, a job and working out marital issues are so right in our faces.
One way to start the journey inward is to really listen to music — country, jazz, oldies, classical, whatever — to allow it to carry you into the past or present or future — the same way just a tiny glance from the girl of your dreams would send you spinning for days at a time.
Another access to the past is through the sense of smell, the most primitive part of our brain. The scents of Thanksgiving with grandma, baking chocolate brownies with mom, even an odor that makes you cringe with disgust can send you spinning to a long forgotten place.
All our senses — sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste can do it. Leave the world of paying bills and fighting traffic and take a trip back to your past. That’s where the writer’s soul exists.
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