Thursday, April 11, 2024

Thought for the day: How to FEEL like a writer

I've been pondering what it would feel like to be a writer again. To be consistent at it. Perhaps even to bring in some abundance from writing. 

And I realized today, that I am not an executive assistant all day every day. I am not a bookkeeper for all the hours my eyes are open. I was not a bookseller every minute I was in the bookstore. I'm not even a reader for more than 4 (or 6) hours in a row. I get up, I engage with others, I use the restroom, I check the phone. 

The ONLY thing I am every second of every hour is me. And I am a multi faceted being who has laser focus some times and the attention span of a squirrel some times.

So feeling like a writer must be wanting to write (and not always having the time or the inclination.) Maybe feeling like a writer is also about being frustrated because there’s 42 ideas and then there are none.
Perhaps feeling like a writer is not so much about the action, as it is about the alignment. 

So I can feel like a writer,  and an assistant, and a reader, and a friend, and a singer, and a cleaner, and a...  all at the same time. 

So. What do you feel like in your multi-faceted awesomeness?

Saturday, March 9, 2024

Let the story end

 I'd like to say that I was doing it for him - because if past evidence is anything to go by, we are in more danger together, trying desperately to rescue each other and save whatever cause we're believing in at the time. We distract each other, our only focus is each other; and in the events we keep getting sucked into, that distraction is, well, dangerous. So I would like to say I am selflessly walking away from this, this melodrama, in order to save his life, and the lives of our friends and the people who have put themselves on the line for us.

But the truth is, I'm doing if for me. I cannot live this way anymore. Every season, it seems, a new trial, a new inexplicable scenario to pull ourselves out of, a new narrow escape, a new meeting of lips and bodies in desperate celebration of life. But this is not life. This is never the life I've dreamed of. And perhaps I was swept away by feeling not only beautiful but helpful, full of purpose and knowledge, the certainty that I was the heroine of my own story.

And I am, I'm sure. But this heroine is tired. This heroine wants to simply be a person once more. I want to eat a meal without looking over my shoulder. I want to put my feet up without fearing it might be my last peaceful moment. I want to regret not having children, instead of being grateful they are not part of this adventure. 

I want to make love in a leisurely fashion, just because it's a Friday night. I want to look at the stars and wonder and the marvels of the universe. I want to know the gentle kindness and petty snobbery of every day people in every day lives.

So I am going. I am walking away. From the portal, from the possibilities, from the man and from the life. 

So let the story end. And let my life begin.