Writing Revisited

July 27, 2009

And I say "revisited" because writing is not right now a place that I stay. I drop by. I sit awhile. I drink coffee. I gaze around and daydream, and it's all good. Safe and easy.

But it isn't enough. It simply isn't enough to rush through my life, distracted by so many things--some of them matter, others not so much--and give writing the occasional wave, the obligatory once-in-a-blue-moon ten minutes of attention. Doing that is legal. Doing that is not morally wrong. Doing that might make me comfortable, but it does not make me a writer.

Awhile back, toward the beginning of this incredibly busy Summer, I made a plan to write and publish here on this blog one piece per week. I did one, and it was terribly, ridiculously hard, and I almost gave up writing because the first draft was horrible, and I thought I was losing my ability to form words into sentences, which of course scared the living shit out of me.

After that experience, my grand plan fell by the wayside of the rat racetrack I've been traveling without having anything to show for it. I haven't written anything of consequence since.

On June 18th, I was reading a book by SARK called Juicy Pen, Thirsty Paper, and I jotted down the following quote in my journal:

"Love yourself--follow your desires--trust your voice--trust what you know. Sing and dance, but write. And then write some more. No excuses...Do whatever you have to do in order to write. But, woman, you owe it to yourself and the world to make your voice known. Praise everything, even the years when your resistance to being wonderful kept you stuck. it is a new day, with a new beginning. You are not alone. We are all going with you. Write, woman, write." Irene Cummings

I still feel inspired and uplifted when I read that. I feel the energy in those words, the magick. I want to drown in the ink flowing from my pen, and I don't even care if it's good or not. Just that it is. I know, deep in the heartiest heart of my being that I was born to be a writer, that I am a writer. Those words, stating them without question, without hesitation, are magick, too.

I want them to be true, not just to ring true. I want to put my energy where my words are, sit my ass down on a regular basis and practice "making my voice known," even if it is only to myself right now. My friend Ashley recently (and rightfully) jumped on my case on Facebook, telling me that I need to get busy writing. I know it's true. I know that this feeling of "missing the train" that I get when I think about how old I am, when I think of how many years have passed so quickly my head spins, at least internally, is only going to increase as my age does.

And no matter how much I write, it won't stop time. But it will make the passing time more meaningful.

A few days ago, I thought about dedicating to my writing endeavors the same time and commitment I would to a job, even a part time job. I thought of getting up early, getting dressed, sitting down with coffee at my desk with a notebook or at the computer and putting in the same hours a part-time job would require of me. I am fortunate to have a great deal of flexibility right now, and I can write whenever I want and need to.

So...what the hell is keeping me?

The answers to that question could only be an exercise in wasting more time I could be spent writing. And so...I will not analyze myself and think up all kinds of deeply philosophical reasons why I'm not writing. Instead, I am going to write. I owe it to myself.