The Little Writer Voice

It is in the heart of crunch time that the voice comes out angry & loud. It is found in the shared moments of studying- when Lisa pulls out the hand bones and plops them down in the middle of a table at a bourgeouise cafe. It happens when I am overwhelmed by labeling the wrist bones (Some Lovers Try Positions That They Cannot Handle) and then the origins & insertions of the abductor pollicis. It is the small voice that demands that I not forget about her as I follow my pursuit toward science. It is the little piece of me that longs to be with my other Lisa in New York City carrying out her lifelong dream of being a writer.

I spent a lot of time on the phone last week with my writer friends. I confessed that I wrote something last week that literally spilled out of every crevice of my body. A barf bag of feelings & release. It was truely wonderful and liberating. And then suddenly I couldn't stop writing. I scribbled in the margins, in my sketch book, and a story completely fictitious was born. A place and sense of being originated in my mind. I have returned to falling asleep just after writing (in my head) one chapter at a time. I haven't done this since my junior year of high school.

It is always when I am hard at work studying for a science exam that the little writer's voice comes out to remind me of my true ambition. Over a plate of hummos I usually break down and then rebuild myself (Refer to Megan and Chemistry). I am so envious of people in an Iowa Writer's Workshop or playwrites toiling in New York City coffee bars. I live vicariously through Lisa. But it was last week that I discovered I am in my own writer's workshop program. I need science to write. The connection between creativity and scientific thought is the precise axis that excites and motivates me each time. It is squeezing writing between my anatomical studies and goodnight talk with Ben or Brain that is the challenge. So often it is here, on the weblog, that messy crazy sentances with tangents are spilled and usually forgotten. It is only after the mess has been spilt that I can begin actual writing. So I must be on my way for tonight. Sweet dreams.