What is this? What has happened to me? Words, thoughts, ideas, are flooding my body like Tsunami pushing so hard I must write. No matter where I am…the words follow me. I wake at odd hours before the sun rises and cryptic sentences flood my brain.

I’m half awake…. contemplating the idea of waking to scratch writings of a mad person on stained dinner receipts by my bedside table. Some moments, I fold. Caving into the wild desires of my soul and scribble ferociously with hieroglyphic like handwriting, I doubt I will understand the words when the sun rises. Other nights, I push them away…welcoming slumber. Each morning I awake. Words flood like me like no other experience I’ve ever had.

I feel possessed a little crazy. I wonder is this what the great writers like Hemingway felt? Only, I’m no Hemingway. Small things. But clearly this is different. I am different. Was it the energy healer I saw to heal my grieving heart? Did it shapeshift the energies in my body… birthing this creative flow of non-stop thoughts? Begging to be swaddled on paper in black and white. I do not know. I only know, I have no other choice.

I’ve come to grips, I may end up living on a friend’s couch, brushing aside stale potato chip crumbs and resting my head on a moldy pillow as writing becomes my every breath. The words and thoughts will not stop. I’ll write for hours as soon as my crusty eyes break open. Unable to stop for my daily routine of meditation and prayer. My life as I’ve known it, has been pushed aside to allow this creative beast to take over my body as my fingers ferociously type at warp speed.

I thank god for the 9th grade typing class I was forced to take. I can type with my eyes closed which I often do. Capturing words shooting out of me at lightning speed. At times I forget to breathe, I’m typing not knowing what I’m writing. I look up at the clock and its noon. How did this happen? I just woke, didn’t I? I force myself to break and shower. I’ve become a smelly, old man, forgetting to eat, bathe and change my clothes. Only I’m not an old man, I’m a young woman. Scratch that. My birth certificate makes me a woman in mid-life. Is that what this is? Mid-life? But I don’t feel old. Sigh.

I push myself out of bed and into the shower. This will stop the voices, I think. Relieved for a little peace in my head. But no. As I scrub my brown body with the scent of vanilla bean soap, the words come again. Dammit. I’m in the shower. Can I have any peace.

I should write this down it sounds brilliant. Wait- I’m in the shower. How do writers do this? Should I get out and write it on the mirror, or on the shower door? This is stupid I think and continue scrubbing. Ahhh…a few minutes of relief. No thoughts. Then is starts…other writers would be thrilled to have this continuous flow. Would they, I think? It feels like torture.

Can I have a minute without thoughts? Part of me wants to swat the words away with a fly swatter. But the wise part of me knows this is a gift from god.

I know. These words are meant to have profound meaning to help others. But I’m not a writer- I say. Oh, but you are the voice says. Write, Write, Write. You must write. So, this is what I’ve written.