This last week or so there’s been plenty of ‘crazy’ going on with me, and I just haven’t been able to write. Not find the time, nor find the words. But when ten days have passed and I haven’t produced anything to publish, a new kind of crazy takes over in me.
My inner artist starts screaming at me for some deeply-needed attention. Like an athlete that trains every day, and then isn’t able to run. I get antsy and irritable, rolled into one.
“Turn up at the page,” is my overplayed mantra. But it’s not just putting pen to paper that’s required in order for the words to flow well. There’s a particular state of relaxed concentration that is required to usher my thoughts and ideas carefully into the fold.
And like wild outback brumbies, if you flinch for a minute and lose control, they’ll buck and rear and be off and away, racing through the far, parched-desert-acres of my brain. No writing possible then. I can only sit and await their return.
This is the problem with having a wilful and spirited mojo. It’s not always reliable. If the worst comes to the worst, and you find yourself enduring a spell in the doldrums, pack a bag, take a hike and seek an adventure.
And to that end, I’m in London this weekend, hoping to pick up a light northerly breeze that will cast me back in the right direction soon.
We’ve come so far, and we’ve reached so high…
This week I was shocked to realize that I had forgotten my blogging anniversary. On January 28th there should have been a cake, with one candle, and a party hat for me… just me, as the subject and guest of my own celebration.
One year since my superbad writing-self pulled out her finger (well, all ten, really) and got down to making the dream a reality. Afraid I couldn’t do it, but no longer willing to let the excuses win. And here I am. Surviving and thriving. Yay me! Hooray.
Recently I said something about how writing can change you, especially if you do it a lot. I wrote this in my journal:
Writing is a process of excavation and discovery – deconstruction of the self… whilst at the same time it is a process of conscious construction and creation. You are uncovering your own depths and perhaps long-hidden talents. And you are everyday strengthening the new and budding archetype within you: The Artist.
In the past year, I’ve experienced more change and positive transformation than in the previous five years all rolled into one. I hit ‘publish’ on that very first post, and some sort of magic took hold of my life. And every time I repeat that act, it’s reinforced.
Not everything I write is something I feel wholly pleased with and proud of, but I know that I just have to keep on chipping away at my craft. And resist the urge to edit or delete my posts too often.
I don’t know where I’m going but I’m on my way…
That’s what’s so beautiful about doing your life’s work (and believe me, this is my life’s work): you know that you’re on a journey, an adventure, one that speaks to your soul and makes your heart soar, but you don’t always know where it’s going to take you.
There’s no map to this place because you are forging the path as you do the work, and no-one, no-one, has been quite where you’re going before. It’s your own unique and personal journey, along the Writer’s Road.
And finally, consider this…
I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking.
It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.
(Anne Morrow Lindbergh)
