Originally, I had planned to consider my New Year’s resolutions. A common ritual in which I seldom participate, but after the events of last night, I have revised my plan.
New Year’s Eve, as is my wont, I spent the night in the company of old friends, some of which I have known since childhood. We relived memories, remembered absent friends, laughed heartily, and sang lustily, all the while enjoying several bottles of fine single malt scotch generously provided by our hosts.
As a writer, one must learn to experience every moment to the fullest. The sights and visual impressions around us are important, but a writer must not neglect the other senses. I heard not only the clear voices of my friends long accustomed to singing in harmony, but also the unique squeak of a cork being drawn from a bottle of 18-year-old single malt. The faint sharp odor of perfectly ripe cheese mingled with the deep richness of warm meatballs. There was the complex smoky taste of Islay whiskey and the bitter sweet flavor of a rich chocolate mousse. I felt the rich feel of a silky satin dress and the soft warmth of the year’s first kiss. These are the impressions I will remember.
There were other less tangible impressions as well. The feeling of comradery born of long association and collective experiences both pleasant and painful. The shared joy of living in the moment. Most of all there was the connection, the kinship if you will, of being in concert with fellow artist.
Being a writer, or an artist of any type, is not an easy life. You must bare your soul and contend with the criticism the will always follow. Even though you live in the normal world, you often feel you are not a part of that world. There is pain, frustration, and rejection aplenty, but there are also joys and rewards that few will ever experience.