Writing Is...

Writing, for me, is the slow release of a fire within my soul. It starts as a tiny, glowing ember that can easily die out if not nurtured. When I start caring for it, blowing life into it by putting words to the page, it grows and radiates out from just below my heart. As I keep tending to the small fire, it burns brighter and brighter, sending a tingling warmth through my chest and down my arms. The pages of prose are the fuel and my breath fans the flames, bringing the fire into my belly and my brain. The heat radiates out of my fingers as I feverishly write, my mind buzzing with the crackling roar of the fire. When the final words leave my fingertips, the blaze extinguishes, doused by a giant cascade of water released from my brain, an act of self-preservation. Steam radiates as the water cools my body, the heat of the fire still strong enough to evaporate water. Slowly, I return to a normal temperature as I put the final touches on the piece, filling in the gaps where my fingers could not keep up with my burning mind. Within, the small ember still glows, waiting for the next time it will grow to engulf me again.