Last night while my husband and I were tidying up after supper I remarked, “If I could sing, I wouldn’t speak. I’d just sing.” It’s something I’ve said, here on this blog a few times, I’m sure and in passing to friends. My husband was tolerating my choice of tunes as he isn’t a big fan of Lana Del Ray. But to my ears her voice is like like liquid amber and the way she can mix the melancholy with the sweet is so lovely which is what sparked my comment on this occasion.
I can not sing. I mean, I can. I do. It just doesn’t sound very nice.
Then my husband said something to me, that to my tone deaf ears, was sort of profound.
He said, “Nicky, you may not be able to sing, but you can write. So by your account you should be writing all the time, and you’re not doing that.”
With his sagacious words I had a moment of clarity.
He was absolutely 100% right. So profound was my reaction to his observation I became very still and quiet-the proverbial deer in the headlights. All I could do was stand there in the middle of the kitchen with a dishtowel in my hands. After about a minute all I could utter was “wow”, which by the way is the exact same thing that occurred the night I met him.
I guess I never looked at my writing as a “talent” like singing. It was and is simply something I must do.
Therefor by my own account, I’m not using my talent as I would have myself do.
Sure I’m constantly “writing” in my head, or making little notes on my iPad or journals, I have my manuscript, and a few other stories I’ve written, and I can’t discount this blog – so I’ve never – not written- but even my blogging over the last two years hasn’t been what I would call prolific.
By my account my talent has been neglected. I should be a prolific writer and I’m not.
I have only one thing to do, write. Write so that should I one day loose the ability to speak, my voice would continue to be heard.
Oh and in case you were wondering, we were listening to Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Ray.