Photo courtesy of Sophiea
I love flowers. They feed the soul like little else, stirring several of our senses in a single second. Language is landscape, filling the white space of an empty page; our ideas seeds we plant, our words the blossoms in spring time.
I worked in a flower shop for a dozen years, back in the first few chapters of my adult autobiography. Then, I arranged flowers into the perfect bouquet; peeling petals, laying layers, and designing displays to halt the heartbeat. Now, I do this with words.
I was young when I first nudged my heels into the shoes of lead designer, eighteen in fact. Circumstance set me there when everyone ahead of me left at the same time. I had no experience, but I was hungry, and had an innate belief in myself. Without training, I could only move my hands according to instinct, bringing each bloom into brighter focus. I ignored the rule book and followed only intuition. Within two years, our shop was booked solid for wedding season; a first in the store’s twenty year history.
Flower design is about color and texture, married in immaculate measure. This is not too different from drafting with words. Each of us sees the world through a different lens, crafted from our own million moments. Individual interpretation dictates our design. As we all see color just a little different, so we hear the hues of language. The way in which we string our syllables is our art to share; no two thoughts the same.
I am thankful I never sat for a class in flower design. I would have spent countless hours in study of all the things that I should never do. Instead, I discovered that there are no limits. Again, I would argue that writing is no different.
Each of us has what it takes to be a better writer. It is already inside us, waiting for its salutation. For some, this means discarding the rules that the gatekeepers have handed down, and listening to the quiet whisper of our instinct. Only we know how we view the world, and it is us who best understand how to make our thoughts sing with all our soul.
I’ve been writing now for thirteen months; each day my words arranged a little neater. Whether we are penning our next posts, or working on our novels, it is us who can tie the bow around the bouquet. Let’s close our eyes and forget what we think we know. We do not think of the book of love when we whisper to our lover.
When we speak through our heart, as our fingers dance across the keyboard or glide across the page, then we can make every post as pretty as a bouquet, each word placed as perfect as a posy.
If you would like to read more by Sean Platt, please head to Writer Dad.
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