You end up writing when...

You end up writing when the need to write is

stronger than the fear of rejection,

when curiosity and your desire to discover

something new about yourself and the world--

and what you think and feel about it all--

is stronger than your fear of failure.

You end up writing when your voice, 

telling you that you must write, 

is stronger than all the voices in your head 

telling you to stop.

You end up writing when you cannot

not write, when it feels as essential to 

staying alive as breathing, and when writing each 

word, your hand shaping each letter on the page, 

is as vital and life-affirming as 

taking a breath.

Listening for words

Listening for words

waiting for a voice

to whisper in my ear

hoping I'll recognize

it when I hear it--

if I hear it--

not knowing what

to expect

sitting in anticipation

of something

(but what?)

not knowing anything

more than the

blank page

and the pen in

my hand

poised over the page

waiting to hear

what I've never heard before

praying I'll be able to

catch the words

with my pen

and bring them

to the page

like pearls

drawn from

the depths

of the sea.

Listening for a voice

You think you're listening for words, waiting for them to appear, but really you're listening for a voice, and only when you hear that voice can you hear the words.

It's a voice that whispers in your ear: "I am here. Are you ready?"

And if you're unprepared, not ready to record what you hear, you'll miss it, and the voice will fall silent again.

It's your voice and it's not your voice but all the voices you've ever heard.

And it comes not from some external source but from inside your inner ear, from some place deep within yourself that you can hear only if you're paying attention.

It sounds like the rush of waves rolling into shore or like the flapping of a bird's wings. 

It sounds like the wind blowing through trees, soughing, rustling leaves.

It sounds like rain falling gently on the roof or like the gentle echo of thunder after a flash of lightening.

Your words strike the page just like that flash of lightning.

And then the voice fades like thunder when it's done and disappears until next time.

And the only evidence of its presence are the words your pen leaves on the page.

You hear a voice

You hear a voice inside your head,

Often, it's just a whisper, barely a sound at all.

But, still, you can hear a voice.

And you realize that you have a choice.

You can choose to listen to the voice and follow it wherever it leads you, or you can decide to ignore it and pretend you didn't hear a thing.

If you follow this voice, you may discover something about yourself that you fear or dislike. 

Or you might discover a new world waiting for you that you've never seen before, or you might see the world you know in a new way. 

You might meet people who you've never met before. 

Or you might meet people who you know and who are disguised as strangers.

If you ignore the voice, you risk losing your ability to hear such a voice in the future. 

So, when a voice speaks to you, whispering in your ear to catch your attention, you can choose to listen or not. 

You can follow the voice wherever it might lead you.

Or you can pretend you don't hear a thing and remain wherever you are ...  rooted in silence.

It's your choice.

On the Edge of Becoming

Sunday morning sunrise

and the world awakens again,

the silence broken only by

the sound of your pen

scratching the surface

of the page.

It's the same each morning.

You don’t know what

your voice sounds like

until you take the risk

of opening your mouth

and letting the words

tumble out, half-formed,

until you let your pen

begin moving across the page,

to see what will flow,

not knowing what

you have to say

until you read the words

that appear beneath

your pen as it moves

across the page.

What can you say

about something so mysterious

as voice? Some people

think you can find it

if you devote the time

to search for it as if

it’s outside you like

hidden treasure or

an unmapped island, and

all you have to do is keep searching

and like an explorer (before satellites

and GPS) you'll stumble

upon it, if you're lucky.

But what if it’s not something

that exists outside you or

that you have to search for,

but, instead, is part of your body,

just like an arm or leg

or like your eyes or ears,

and it’s just a question

of listening intently and

letting it speak and being able

to acknowledge its presence,

like your heart or soul, a part of

your body that you become aware 

of when you pay close attention 

to your pulse, the way you pay 

close attention to your hopes

and dreams?

You find your voice, I think, only

when you stop searching for it,

when you step off the boat and

put down your pack and sit

and wait for it to emerge

on the page in front of you.

Open your ears and listen

to the silence for in the silence 

is your voice, your words

waiting to be spoken,

your stories or poems balanced

on the edge of becoming,

waiting to emerge.

The Power of One Voice

Through a stroke of fate—in the way that we find books waiting on the shelf for us, sometimes for years, without us being aware of their existence—I came across Hans Fallada’s Every Man Dies Alone, a novel for adults based on the true story of a couple who dared raise their voices against the Nazi propaganda machine and attempted to tell the truth to other Germans. The novel was published in 1947, shortly after Fallada’s death.

It was a hard book to read and, after turning the last page, I felt as if I’d been dragged through a world of lies and deception, where decency and truth had been erased from people’s memories, replaced by suspicion and fear, doubts and a false sense of loyalty.

Love, truth, honesty, trust—these values had been subverted again and again by Nazi bullies who insisted that everyone see the world and understand their place in it according to a master plan.

And even though the master plan was nothing more than lies parading as truth, there was no escape from it—everyone was caught in the trap laid by Hitler and his thugs—and anyone trying to escape or stand up to the falsehood and illegitimacy found themselves persecuted, disgraced, shamed, and sent to camps or prison or sentenced to death for betraying the glorious Fatherland.

Fallada's portrait of society in Every Man Dies Alone brings the dystopian vision of Nazi Germany to life, a hellish society in which anyone who offers a different opinion than the majority, or voices opposition or protest, is arrested, tortured, and put to death, all under the guise of a just judicial system.

That there is one voice--the main character (and his wife, who helps him)--willing to stand up to the bullies who are in power, well, it's a kind of miracle. And that these two people survive with their dignity and courage intact (or, shall we say, unbroken) for nearly 500 pages is yet another miracle.

The book is based on the true story of a German couple who risked (and ultimately lost) their lives for trying to awaken other Germans to the atrocities of the Nazi regime. It’s an important book to read if you want to learn how the power of a single voice can change the world.

For more information about Fallada and his work, visit:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/may/23/hans-fallada-thriller-surprise-hit

http://theasylum.wordpress.com/2009/04/09/hans-fallada-alone-in-berlin-every-man-dies-alone/

http://www.charlierose.com/view/interview/10224

http://www.bookslut.com/fiction/2009_02_014128.php

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hans_Fallada

PS - Before tackling Every Man Dies Alone, I’d recommend reading Susan Campbell Bartoletti’s The Boy Who Dared, another book about German resistance to the Nazis which led me in a roundabout way to Fallada’s masterpiece.