When writing, the writer leaves the world. She vanishes into the
folds of her mind. She dies there. Alone, in a field of words. The
words are the field, are the words and images of her mind, made
manifest, manifold. By writing, the writer leaves her body and
enters the page, the text, the otherworld, the one she dreams.
When writing, the writer dies. She dies to the world. The phone,
the bloody black ringer, rings on; the birds sing outside the shut
glass window, the writer is gone. Writing is transformation,
transportation. By writing, the writer leaves. Her body remains.
Her body, a terrible hump of flesh and blood, cells and disease. But
she is given the gift, grace—she is able to escape her body and the
world. She is transported via the electricity inside her mind into
the page, into the sea of the words.
M.D. becomes nothing by writing. By thinking, already escapes.
Poverty and drinking, destitution, isolation, a lifetime of
abandonment. And memory. Booze loosens it up. Booze closes it
down. Writing is the same, though different. Writing breaks down
all the doors, smashes all the windows in the house, her great big
white mansion—and she is free.
Copyright © 2020 Cynthia Cruz
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.