Crossing the Threshold

Once we begin to move out of this private inner peace and the excitement generated from an illuminated imagination, we must then go through the many various trials which will allow us to sit down and access these stored memories. We must make arrangements with our time, all manner of commerce and behind any available concentration to clear the space to get down to the chore of actually writing.

This can be a laborious period, with more than a chance we will lose the thread of what it is we desire to share through carefully chosen words. Yet if we persist, and with luck and the consequence of circumstance which will afford the luxury of time and space to get to writing, we stand at a threshold ready to undergo a momentous transformation.

In the opening hours, we work to finely tune our minds so that we are able to manage the depth of concentration which will be required for the task which lies ahead. We isolate ourselves away from all distraction and begin to listen and recall; ahead lies silence and solitude. We understand we shall need hours alone to mine the raw material of an activated imagination. Then more quiet and toil as we endeavour to translate glorious, sometimes exhilarating scenes played out in the expanse of memory, into lucid language which will communicate to a reader.

As writers, we are required to invest energy to ensure us a space of both solitude and productivity. We require a deeper and more subtle form of communication with our thoughts. Distraction is an occupational hazard for those who require a workplace where the contents existing in the interior regions of the mind can be coaxed forward in order to bring them to the page.

It is in silence where our intuition finds the opportunity to finally operate. It reaches inside the imagination to pull up the barest of awareness or the nearly understood, then spins this notional gossamer back and towards through the conscious mind, escaping on the hint of a whisper.

It is the voice that suspects; it is wisdom which anticipates.

{Paintings by Pierre-Auguste Renoir}