I was all set to post my entry from Canada Writes non-fiction bit, but re-read it and it really is rather terrible and needs some work. Really, it's like Twilight minus Sparkly vampires (no old men watching women sleep or things equally creepy.) Actually, my grammar is still better than vampire lady's.
It's been a journey to here. Been pondering it of late. My counsellor says I need to enjoy the journey a little bit. Sit back. Take it all in. It's not all turmoil and navel gazing. Though to be fair, I'm doing my fair share of that as well. This is a story about how I got up one morning and words were no longer there. It's not that life wasn't funny or things didn't happen, I just coudln't tap into it. It happened so gradually that I just sort of faded with them. Then one day poof gone, couldn't do it. So I stopped.
To blame the words is a bit like blaming the pen. They were clearly there I just couldn't bring them here. They are the tools of the story. I'm not an outline, brick laying kind of writer, that's the point of the blog. I sort of start at A and end up wherever. There is no real process. It just comes. I mean it's not that I didn't have stuff I could have said. (Harper and his band of thieves still running Parliament give me plenty of fodder.) I start, the words and I connect and they come like a whooosh... sort of like today.
I reckon it's the creative equivalent of a throwing up (minus the gagging and the copious quantities of tequila), it's sometimes difficult but in the end I usually feel better about things. I don't really control it much. It all just sort of lands on the page and we go where we go. I just allow it by getting out of the way.
The really incredible fabulous posts took no longer than 30 minutes to write. The ones I loved. Perfect save for the words that I skip because of speed. When it flows my hands have a hard time keeping up with my mind. Writing for me is not about thinking. It's about flow. Flow. In October, the flow slowed to a trickle and it was all I could do write the corporate crap I had to for work.
In college, I could just plug in. Wooosh. There's a poem. Whoosh, a story. (It was late '80s, there were no blogs or I'd have kicked it at that too. Or rather I'd have thought about it.) Life happened, I got serious. Tried to do the career thing. Felt a soul crush. Left. Had baby. Took time. Tried career 2.0. Soul crush. Took a bit time. (Easier without the baby.) Rinse lather repeat. The spirit is willing, but doubt was ever-present and getting stronger. Whatever it is that I should be doing to keep myself happy and inspired, clearly I was missing the mark.
A few months ago, I saw the signs of the soul crush coming, once more. (It's convoluted and really not that interesting anymore.) Much sooner than expected. The voice within was talking "Are you listening Missy?" it said. "How often do we do this?" Then the words stopped and I was forced to listen with waves of deep engulfing sadness. There were no words. There wasn't much of anything. I fell silent. I crawled into this little room went through the motions. I decided that it was ok for me not write, it was ok not to be creative. It was ok to just push it to the side.
I threw myself into strength training and stopped listening to my own inner voice. Sort of, dabbled in a few things. Took advice that was well meaning, but really not right for me. I knew it wasn't right, yet I silence it. Luckily inner voice may have been silent to myself, but it was clearly sending out a beacon. Help found me.
Two people who didn't know each other and really don't know me very well recommended counsellor. That's either a sign from the universe or really good marketing. (I decided that it was the former.) Enter Di, who I was sure would say "it's ok you don't need to write." It's ok to crawl into that quiet life. That's what you should do. Grow up. Plan B. Your parents were right. Move along now, that'll be $150 please. What happened instead was, she took one look at me and said "Oh my god, you're an artist." I protested told her no, I couldn't write, I wouldn't write. I wasn't a poet or a writer or an artist or really anything. I was a working stiff, who was just a bit confused and needed a new career path.
It's taken a bit with many teachers, concerned friends, and a strong strong Man. There is tremendous love for me. And slowly I'm refinding my voice, and learning to listen to it first. Trusting that voice and trusting that I have all the talents and skills to take me where I need to go. I'm working on it still. I'm rebuilding (I have the technology?) I'm changing, growing and learning to forgive... myself most of all.
So I'm back, funny strong slightly left centre and off on this journey. It's the same me, just a bit mor authentic.
