It’s been close to three months since I have paid attention to the book that I am writing.
It’s a book that I have been writing for a few years now.
I kept it, literally, in my dark closet for a couple of those few years.
In that last year, I’ve let her come out again.
I’ve made us some play dates.
Sometimes a park, sometimes a library.
Sometimes we sit with crystals and sage and draw.
We have coffee together.
We cry together.
We pray together.
Sometimes, I get intimidated by calling her a BOOK.
But, it’s what she is.
And it’s also what she is beyond.
A few days ago, I sat down with a fellow woman of color writer who has one book of poetry out in the world (she’s working on her second).
We talked about the how of it: how we write, how we publish, what our books are.
What occurred to me was that she, like me, knew her medicine.
She knew the medicine her book would carry into the world.
She maybe doubts it, sometimes; but, she trusts the process.
She trusts, as she said, that the baby she birthed will have a life of its own.
I have to think the same for myself and my book.
That if I build it, they will come, to quote Kevin Costner.
That in building the magic, in letting the words flow, the medicine itself will come through AND that the medicine will be SMART and go to exactly where it needs to.
An intelligent, wise medicine, my book.
Finding the wounds, finding the way of its own healing power.
And pay attention.
“Let me speak!” she says, my book.
“Let me speak, I need you to write me.”
As scary as it is, I have to listen.