“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”
How can I call myself a writer? I ask myself as I skip past my blog (this one) and head straight on to Facebook for a healthy helping of scrabble, inspirational gobbledygook, silliness and chat. This has become a pattern as of late; a pastime I engage in to distract myself from the reality that I am a writer that is not writing.
I am stuck. Jumbled is the best way I can describe it. A million thoughts vie for my attention; some are glorious, some are grand, some are damn insecure and most are unfinished. Just like my writing–just like me.
Time is a funny thing; when I was younger it seemed to be there was so much of it. I couldn’t wait for it to pass so I could do this or that. There was an abundance of time and I could afford to waste it. So I did….and then life gets in the way…funny again how THAT happens and so here we are and here I am in my mid forties and what have I done? Not a whole hell of a lot…
…for myself anyway…for my dreams and my hopes. There was always someone first. This is not unusual. It is the reality of being a parent; sometimes your dreams have to rest on the back burner for a while. I understand that and I embraced the hell out of it, spending many years as a stay-at-home mom. You never ever get that time back and I am glad I was able to do it but this has set me back career-wise quite a bit.
I always thought in the back of my mind that writing would “save” me someday; from the reality…the drudgery of every day life…writing has always been my salvation.
I have spent countless hours alone; just me with pen and paper. I would pour my heart and soul out and never dare show anyone what I had written. Writing was my only confidant, my only true friend. Every hurt…and every joy and everything in between was recorded in one way or another.
I have grown dependent on this mode of expression to get my feelings out. It is like breathing to me and when I don’t write I slowly suffocate…
Once in a while I get blocked. We all do. Many, I think run out of ideas on what to write, this has never been a problem for me… quite the opposite. I can think of a million things to write. My brain is like a radio receiver and most of the time I can pick up one station at a time and focus. This is the perfect spot for me; I am in “the zone” and at my most happiest.
On rare occasions it’s as if all the stations are on at the same time. I can’t focus on just one. I’ve learned not to worry at this point. I’ve been here before and I have learned just to walk away and do something else.
The words cannot be forced and neither can my passion. I have to be passionate about whatever I write or really what is the point? I am finding out. I must be true to myself and my convictions. I cannot sugarcoat my feelings or concentrate my focus on silly feel-good trite. I must speak my mind and not worry about upsetting someone.
I have been guilty of all of the above…and life is too damn short for this.
It is almost midnight. The back door is open and a cool breeze wafts in ever so slightly, my tea is warm and I am smiling–life is pretty good.
I don’t need all the answers. I don’t need to be perfect and I don’t think anyone expects me to be. So I’m going to focus on being me a little more and not being someone else. This Strawberryindigo thing…I don’t know. I may drop the silly name and be….me; Nancy.
I can’t force this, I think I will take life as it comes for a while and see where that leads me…
Where is that? I don’t know but I do know I must keep on writing. It’s like riding a bike and here I am back on the bike baby pedaling like crazy.
I have missed you all here in the blogosphere. I feel like a kid who has been out of school for an extended absence and now I am back. I am out on the playground and it feels good to be here!
“Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.”
PS: Whoever sent me the Kafka quote. Thanks for the reminder. I needed it. I want you to know that it is one of my favorites and so are you!