I turned in. I turn out. Left turns only. I have something to say. I feel the pain and mirth of my fellows and I think we have a duty to encourage empathy and wound-healing laughter. That's where the feathers come in. Hee-haw, like orgasm, the big tickle, is creative process, genesis of the egg.
Witness, solitary creature, social being, I long for corvid conversation, diurnal crow twitter ending at Sunset. No wonder raven stole the light. He/She needed to keep talking.
It is as simple as that. I want to be in the conversation. I love community and don't mind being seen as a harpy who steals twigs, feathers and bright shiny things for the nest in my head. It's a welcome nest. The kettle is on.
I want to invite everyone in. That is why I let myself out, bum first, talking. That is why I love sharing the stories and encouraging others to sing along. That's why I sometimes murder my darlings, the bane of every writer's family. We are all one story, our flight patterns just variations on a theme. Some sing high. Some sing low.
When people tell me they want to be writers, I say, if you have a story to tell, welcome. Come naked. Writing is not something we put on. It is not business first. First, learn to fly. Flight is a holy practice, the practice of weaving nests out of love and betrayal, deceit and complicity. We are a choir. The crows know that. They work together, throw their voices, and adjust their pitch. They imitate and flatter. They comfort and grieve. That is our job description, listen and share. Read everything. That's how we get our wings.
Ask my sister for the other side of the story. She is the sensible one.