Okay, I’m not one to go all in about spirits and things. I believe there are supernatural forces, but as a Christian, and a scaredy-cat, I ignore; nay, resist, such topics.
Most of the time.
Just over two weeks ago, I journaled about the death of my mentor.
We weren’t that close. He was someone I respected as a writer and creator. He encouraged and inspired me to continue in my own writing endeavors. Big words for what boils down to: I like what he said and did, and he saw potential in me.
And then he died.
I don’t know what to do with this void. Do I write about my personal loss? What personal loss? It was a peripheral relationship. So why let others in on my tears? Because he told me to. He told me to write. Every day. No matter what. In joy. In pain. On vacation. Write. Every day.
But for a few days of mourning, I stopped.
I guess that didn’t make him happy. I guess I still have potential. Because in the middle of the night, during a rare thunderstorm no less, I received an email from him. Last night. Two and a half weeks after his death.
I’m not joking.
The interesting thing is, it was the very first email he ever sent me. From years ago. I’d asked his advice as a writer, never thinking he’d respond. But he did. And so our writer’s relationship began. I’d had it saved on hard copy. Saved in my email inbox. And suddenly it pops up on my blackberry like a brand new message.
“Molly Jo… I will give you an answer which is the absolute answer. Write every day and write for at least a couple hours. … What you have to do is make writing a very high priority in your life … Writing is like weightlifting. The more you do it, the stronger you’ll get. … That’s the best advice I can give. If you want to be a writer, you gotta write.”
So. Here I am. Still feeling silly about being affected by the loss of someone who was not yet a dear friend. Still wondering what I could possibly have to write about. Thinking of my unfinished projects.
And in the middle of the night, the heavens opened to wash away my clouds; and he reminded me of what’s important. I write because I am a writer.
“I write for the same reason I breathe. Because if I didn’t, I would die.” ~Isaac Asimov