I love writing. It’s my craft and my career. Writing has always been something I take seriously, which is why, whenever I write a piece (including this one), I always put my whole heart into it.
Of course, this can cause problems.
First, the right atrium is infused into the language. The words get pulpy and slick, but I keep going. The right ventricle and pulmonary artery mix with my grammar and OK. My sentences. Can be choppy.
I write on.
Left ventricle, left atrium. My love for the craft is now more apparent than ever. Oxygen-rich blood oozes from one word to the next. Its rhythm is hypnotizing, especially to me. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
The superior vena cava is there in my prose before I even realize. And the interior vena cava! It was there the whole time. Everything is coming together. My heart rate rises with every comma, every em dash—every period.
I save my aorta for last. I want the reader to feel how tender this moment is, how pure and whole my heart is now, and thus how pure and whole my writing. BPM—off the charts. Call the doctor? I’ve finally reached the zone that so many artists allude to. There’s a tear in the reader’s eye and two in mine. My veins feel weird; that’s part of the zone. My words, they jump off the page with every thump, thump, thump.
I put my heart into it and my writing has never felt more alive.