Writing from the Soul

Writing comes from a personal place.

I would argue that all writing -- poetry and novels, song lyrics and even textbooks come from a need within one's soul. The need may be as mundane as "I really wish someone had written a textbook about case management for the disabled (Me about 10 years ago)" and as lofty as "I want to share this prophetic dream I had last night" (me thirty years ago), or for that matter, "I want to imagine I'm the captain of this starship who gets away with anything short of murder and gets branded a hero" (Whoever write the Star Trek movie reboot).

One also can write for the market, which can be a whole 'nother thing, as they say around here. This is the thing I struggle with, because I have this crazy notion that people need to read emotionally packed narratives about people who don't match the status quo. For example, there's Amarel:

Finally, Janice found herself back at the building site. The bales had been set in place, and workers set a framework inside and out to create the cob walls. Gideon walked the perimeter, pointing out how to develop the frames for the curved sections of the house. Larry and another man watered something in a wide trough, then pounded it with what looked like small tree trunks with handles. 

Most of the men had taken off their shirts, as it had grown hot outside. Janice admitted she enjoyed the view, and then she saw Amarel, shirtless and untouched by sun, at a wheelbarrow where he mixed mud and straw with a shovel and dumped them at the end of the trough. What Janice saw was beautiful, the angelic face focused, the graceful torso with muscles engaged, pectorals both muscular and curved, the intrigue of slight curves that she didn’t understand at his hip. The alabaster sculpture gained detail in her mind.

Amarel is truly genderqueer, engendered that way by the plan of the Maker. He presents as both make and female, and that causes some consternation even among the supposedly liberal people surrounding him. Janice, the artist taking refuge at Barn Swallows' Dance, wavers between thinking him the perfect sculptor's subject and worrying about the implications of falling in love with him. This is what comes from my soul -- imperfect people who defy the status quo and have to resolve some great developing problem.

I'm still considering whether I can write for the market and satisfy my soul. I might have to take solace from the case of Emily Dickinson, who continued to write despite a readership puzzled by her poetry. I'll see how it goes.