Heads or tails? Thoughts on writing...

On my mind:
the snap in the air-- the kind you can taste between your teeth and feel in your nostrils.
Blazing yellow and fire-red leaves, pumpkin spice bread, writing, and Stephen King.

Stephen King, I saw him speak and read the other night here in Boulder to promote his new book Dr. Sleep, the sequel to the Shining. Raw inspiration is the least I can say about him. Some of the greatest stories have come out of this man, and to hear him speak about writing is enough to fuel any fledgling for months, maybe years. This isn't the exact quote from the other night, but it's still a quote of his with the same message (one that we've all heard before most likely):

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.”

He also said something else (I paraphrase)-- "if you aren't compelled to write everyday, then maybe you aren't meant to be a writer, which is fine because it just means you were meant to do something else."

I've been thinking about this last part ever since. Lately, I have been falling into the category of not being "compelled" to write. It's certainly not because I have nothing to write about. It's been the opposite actually. My days have been filled with a variety of things, both terrific and trying, and certainly worth telling. But I've held onto most of it for inexplicable reasons. Maybe it's a privacy reflex--a need to keep things to myself for awhile (that happens periodically I noticed). Or something else. There's a jagged edge that's been gnawing at the fringes lately for awhile. A sobering thought: perhaps I'm not meant to be the writer I once believed I could be.

So perhaps I should just leave it at that. I'm a fair-weather writer and write when the muse sings or when the "genius" arrives, or when I feel like it. No pressure to perform, no blocks to hurl, no deadlines to dread, no insatiable need to leave my pawprint on paper. The truth is, I've never had a gigantic urge to be published. To just be decent was enough, and to have touched a few with the words I share was miles above what I ever expected. 

Or.

Is there a deeper truth? One grafted with "fear of failure" and "insecurity", infecting the growth of bigger dreams? Ego fiddles with my self-assurance, gives me a smirk and tosses me a coin saying "is it heads or is it tails, cause you can't have both." As I clasp my fingers around the coin, I can feel the burning hot truth turn to ash, leaving me still with nothing but a thought.

"I am what I am what I am." ~ Popeye

When I do unravel, when the words flow, they organically wind towards truths that have been haphazardly flung into an ocean filled by time past and present. Once recovered, when the fingers fly and when words collide, writing can unearth hope and possiblity, and plant seeds of courage. Here, writing finds the person I could be and though I admit she scares me, she is the bait that keeps me hungry every single time.

I think what it comes down to is the belief we hold in our hearts, and there are no rules to what we want to believe. Today, I am enough as a writer, and I find hope in words that show up when they feel like it. And every now and then when I cast a line out into the ocean, something special nibbles on the other end, reminding me that the courage to break any walls that stops the flow is out there, whenever I am ready. 

Monday love

xoxo

Tick, tick, tick...

Time passes and I watch it go. Funny how I don't ever see it coming, only leaving. It moves fast and slow without prejudice, and I ponder the winding, paradoxical nature of it all. Time's inescapable vine propels us forward effortlessly, while I dawdle with little wishes to pause, and sometimes, rewind.

Lately, I have been list-making to organize my time and prioritize what's in my mind. Busy hasn't stopped since we moved, but Time has trained me well to be more efficient , effective, and accountable by making lists. And let's just face it, if I don't write it down I don't remember it.

But oh the irony!!! The lists never, ever end. It's a dangerous place to reside inside lists as they have been known to steal my time quicker than the belief that I have saved any by making them. It's a simple fact, the faster I move, or the more I fill my lists, or the more I cram into a day, the quicker the day flashes, leaving me to wonder where my time has gone. Sometimes I feel the satisfaction of my efficiency, and other times I wonder if I am afflicted with an addiction to busy-ness. And at the end of the day, with a fresh list of horizontal slashes dressed in perceived success, I see a skeletal recording of the hours of my day, like a bony rib cage worn by the passage of time. Yikes. *Sigh*

Unless.

I blast Mumford out loud and dance in the kitchen, I hike amidst my long-limbed brothers (sharing their first fists of green lately ;), I take snapshots of my boy, now with braces, and my girl with her bangs finally growing long. I paint my workshop, and now make its curtains. I drive my husband to the bus station for a meeting in Denver, and I sit to write down on my list that I need to get the snow tires off the van. Time has never been something to fear, not as long as I remember to fill it with heart. The ticking that goes by does not discriminate between snow tires and a smoothie, between laughter and stress, or accomplishment and procrastination. We are our own judge and jury to how we spend our time. Lists or not, I decide where joy plays a part. I decide when to dance or when to drive. So it's only with the trick of the mind and the flick of my wrist how I perceive whether my day is long or short. That is just how foolish we humans can be. Just ask the trees, they know what I mean :).

Mucho love...

xoxo