I’ve long admired those who create novel musical compositions or take a canvas and paint beautiful works of art. I find such creative gifts mysterious, something beyond my comprehension, as if fully received from some muse. I’m sure there is a great deal of effort involved, yet the inspiration that leads to a breath-taking masterpiece seems almost magical.

On the other hand, writing is something that I can grasp. And I surmise that most people can express themselves at least adequately, if not masterfully, through the written word. A soldier writing home from the frontlines in a handwritten letter, a daughter sending her father an email during her first week at college, someone posting to a blog from their couch all are cases of someone finding the means to express themselves to others via the written word As is someone writing a short story or novel.

Be it as it may, I would conclude that writing offers many values to the authors. It helps them sharpen critical thinking, fosters greater examination and questioning of emotions, and spurs more attention to what is going on around them. A writer of fiction who is serious about his or her craft will be sparked to more closely observe people, conversations, and the surrounding environment so to better illuminate the world for others.  

I myself love to write, whether creating fiction or composing non-fiction, or just editing works of others.

But all that came crashing down on December 25 when I managed to shatter my wrist. That it was only a wrist is a small miracle. While the entire episode was a blur—from being inadvertently bumped at the top of the stairs, to barreling headfirst down nineteen steps, to crashing into something solid with my head, to laying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, gasping for breaths and wondering whether this was it for me. In the end, the only lasting damage, besides a dent in the wall at the bottom of the stairs, was a wrist broken into too many small pieces to put completely back together. It was beyond the capabilities of duct tape and WD-40. When the surgery was done, I was left with some pins, an external fixator—a metal bar traveling nearly the length of my forearm and an inch above—and an inability to wear long-sleeved shirts and coats. And to use my right hand.

Thus, my writing was put on hiatus, excepting for one-finger pecking with my non-dominant left hand, since some pretty important letters are on the right side of the keyboard.

When ten weeks after the surgery I could finally type semi-normally again, along came the plague. Normally a lockdown situation would hardly derail a writer—long stretches of time quarantined with one’s thoughts and computer? Unable to be distracted by trips to restaurants and bars and neighborhood picnics and beaches? And with honey-do projects easily postponed with “You know, I really shouldn’t venture to Home Depot”?  But for me it meant my day job as a college professor and high-school administrator became doubly time-consuming with the need to convert courses midstream to an online format.

Today, finally, I have resumed my writing. My wrist still needs a lot of rehabbing. The virus and the response to it continues to wreak societal havoc. But I can take solace once again in writing. And I can finally add again to this blog.

Since I began with a discussion of writing songs, let me end with a quote attributed to one of the greats: “It’s easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.” — Johann Sebastian Bach