“My entire soul is a cry, and all my work is a commentary on that cry.” Nikos Kazantzakis
It sputters and cracks. Then after a bit of clearing, a whisper emerges. Better than nothing. At least there’s a chance of being heard. I try again, but this time it has shrivelled to a squeak, the same sort of sound you might hear if you mistakenly stepped on the throaty part of a child’s toy.
Several people have commented. The consistent remark, “Sounds like you’ve been out partying and having a good time.”
I pointed to myself, squawked out, “you know I’m an old broad, right?”
“So?” the cashier said. Then as I left, she suggested I party on.
This week I lost my voice. It has been coming on for a few weeks: stammering at first, regaining, then deserting me. I’ve put it down to being tired.
There’s been so much to do of late, I haven’t been able to write let alone think about my new project. Writing stretches and exercises my voice, keeps it strong and present. The cry, as Kazantzakis so eloquently described, is released.
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