(Would you believe this is my 100th post? It feels weird!)
Writers, I believe, have a special way of experiencing life. I, at least, no longer blitz through it without paying attention. Ever since I put the first word on a page and attempted to describe a scene, I discovered a new facet of life.
I had to see, smell, taste and touch everything. It's as if someone turned up my perception button one day. I have to feel the world and understand it.
Everything can be material. People talking on the bus. A strange customer at my grocery. The rich smell of fresh croissants. The super sweet candies I eat by the dozens on Thursday evenings. The foul smell of sulfur in my labs. There are no exceptions.
I realised this more fully last weekend, as I hiked through a forest with snowshoes. It's winter and most birds are gone. The forest was silent safe for our steps. The day was hot and snow melted, falling from the branches and to the ground. I stopped to listen. My boyfriend was a bit confused at first but when I motionned for him not to talk, he knew right away. I was doing this writer thing.
And then in the middle of a winter forest, I heard the strangest of sound. A fire crackling. It was the melted snow from the trees touching the still cold ground. Admist the tall pine, with not a human being in sight besides of us, it was magic.
I recorded this in a little part of my brain, which stores peculiar experiences for future descriptions. I'm not sure I would have stopped to listen four years ago.
When we started walking again, the sound of our snowshoes crushing the snow covered the crackling. I knew it was there, however, and I was glad I'd stopped.
The writer in me did it. I never loved him more.