There comes a point when you feel certain that you are going the right way. That the path has made itself known, that both socks are the same colour, and your hair is fabulous and everything is working for you. There comes a time when you can't keep it for yourself anymore.
And while my hair may certainly not be consistently fabulous (I have come to terms with the fact that it has a life all its own), there has come a time for me to tweak my craft. To share my art. To stick my whole hand into the pickle jar, so to speak, and hope that it doesn't get stuck.
My whole life I've known that this was it - that I was to eternally be devoted to the crafting of words, and that I was maybe okay at it. I've observed some and written much, and now is the time to lay it all on the table.
There are feelings/experiences which we do not have the words for in English. One of them being that feeling you get after leaving a conversation and realizing there were things you should have said. Only after you walk away, do you think of the best comeback ever, the most witty thing you've ever thought, the most tender sentiment. I hate that feeling. I know that feeling so well, and the one domain in my life where that never occurs is in my writing. Writing is eternal; it does not abide by the temporal laws which speech or conversation must adhere to. Writing is not fleeting the way "I love you" flies away from you, the way you reach out for the tail of "you" in the wind, without success.
The French have a phrase for this. It is l'esprit de escalier, loosely translated as "the spirit of the stairs."
In writing things down, I have stamped all the sentiments and agonies and witticisms I am capable of into print.
It is time to leave the conversation having said all that needs to be said.