My thinking brain, my open heart...
Again, I’m afraid my brain has turned to mush. Today is a day off ‘work’ for me, and I was initially excited about having a day stretched before me to fill with words that I’ve missed writing, because for once on one of these days off, there are no phone calls to make, no folk to chase up, no one asking anything of me, and that just when not at work. My point is, the day is completely mine, and I was looking forward to throwing myself back in the writing, something I’ve in truth neglected for weeks. Save a few sentences here and there written at ‘inappropriate’ times to ‘use later’. It’s reminded me of the 19 year-old who would write her own heart words and not report methods during lectures.
The difference between me then and me (possibly) now is that then I went back to my lovely hovel with voices in the halls and lovelier voices on my answering machine, and I actually used the words I’d scribbled to finish something bigger. I worked on one thing til it was finished and people were moved by it, and I wrote yet more, I was actually crazy with it, in the best possible way. That was before I got into multi-tasking, before the five novels were started so I can’t finish one. Before I began to read the words of others at the expense of my own. Before I got an attack of the ‘shoulds’ that I did begin to back-track from.
I haven’t finished a piece in a year and a half. Not for lack of starting things, or continuing other things, and it is this fact that makes me not a hypocrite.
Why am I thinking of this now? Because writing is indeed what I do, who I am, how I breathe and I’m not at the level I once was or the level of ‘someone else’ who’s been writing as long as I have, because I still long for the like-minded, electric, environment I left the second school to find. Because I’ve spent too much time doing ‘other things’, because I’ve spent too much time with a dude who’s asked not one never-loving thing about me, my writing or what makes me tick. Because living here now, in such a vibrant place there are real glimmers of what I think I’ve lost or buried, or want to find again, and every day I’m closer to being safe in my skin like I was once was. Thinking about it helps, remembering the voices of my beloved characters helps, talking about it, writing these non-fiction words, which are words in themselves.
I just don’t want to get even more lost in ‘real-life’ and ‘routine’. Saying that, I like my new everyday life, and I want more of it, believe as with everything, that it will unearth more material to work with. I want to make time for what I truly love and remember/be in the zone again. Stop pushing my heart to the side when this is the time to squeeze it and use it, and open it.
The difference between me then and me (possibly) now is that then I went back to my lovely hovel with voices in the halls and lovelier voices on my answering machine, and I actually used the words I’d scribbled to finish something bigger. I worked on one thing til it was finished and people were moved by it, and I wrote yet more, I was actually crazy with it, in the best possible way. That was before I got into multi-tasking, before the five novels were started so I can’t finish one. Before I began to read the words of others at the expense of my own. Before I got an attack of the ‘shoulds’ that I did begin to back-track from.
I haven’t finished a piece in a year and a half. Not for lack of starting things, or continuing other things, and it is this fact that makes me not a hypocrite.
Why am I thinking of this now? Because writing is indeed what I do, who I am, how I breathe and I’m not at the level I once was or the level of ‘someone else’ who’s been writing as long as I have, because I still long for the like-minded, electric, environment I left the second school to find. Because I’ve spent too much time doing ‘other things’, because I’ve spent too much time with a dude who’s asked not one never-loving thing about me, my writing or what makes me tick. Because living here now, in such a vibrant place there are real glimmers of what I think I’ve lost or buried, or want to find again, and every day I’m closer to being safe in my skin like I was once was. Thinking about it helps, remembering the voices of my beloved characters helps, talking about it, writing these non-fiction words, which are words in themselves.
I just don’t want to get even more lost in ‘real-life’ and ‘routine’. Saying that, I like my new everyday life, and I want more of it, believe as with everything, that it will unearth more material to work with. I want to make time for what I truly love and remember/be in the zone again. Stop pushing my heart to the side when this is the time to squeeze it and use it, and open it.