Usually, after three hours of writing and editing, I click to save the word document before copying and pasting it onto my website. Once pasted, I still find things that need editing. After reviewing several more times, I click publish, and an hour later I think of ways to further improve that post. Not that I will fix it after it has been published, the publish button is the "let it go" button, but I still think of it.
Several hours after this, I begin churning out new ideas. Usually. Sometimes there are so many ideas, I list them. I have piles of beginnings with no endings. I have an idea box in the basement, waiting for eager eyes to eat them up and make them something worthwhile.
This time however, I don't have any ideas, and I won't rummage through old ideas to find something workable. I sit, sprawled on the couch, laptop open, Mia curled at my side, writing, without knowing where my words are taking me.
For the past few days I have opened my laptop only to stare at the cursor, write and erase a few sentences and close it again twenty minutes later. Some might call this writer's block, but I don't feel blocked. My soul just doesn't feel touched right now. So instead of searching through old ideas, I'll write, hoping something will touch my soul.
In my quest for Home, I've made many personal discoveries. My last blog talked about the ringing in my soul, causing anxiety. I believe I have uncovered the core belief that causes the ringing. The belief is this: other people know better than me.
Having uncovered this core belief means I am tiny feet away from getting rid of it. Getting rid of this belief means getting rid of the ringing, getting rid of the ringing means the panic will disappear, making the panic disappear means my life will change from what I've always known into something different. And this is where I stop and wonder.
I have often written from a place of longing and discomfort. I have always written in order to give myself a Home on the page. But what if I find my Home? I write to create order amidst chaos, but what if there is no chaos?
These past few days, I have made enormous progress towards finding a place of peace within myself. During this time, I had no desire to write. I'm not saying A=B, but I do wonder if peace has put out my writing fire. Changing myself means a change in my writing. I just don't know what that change would be.
One day, many years ago, I googled my name and stumbled upon a blog. This blog was so funny and genuine, I read every word of it back to the beginning of time. The writer of this blog became my new best friend (she just didn't know it). Every day, I checked for updates. I even submitted a question to her advice page just to see if she would answer (she did). Eventually, her blog slowed down from several weekly posts, to every other week, then months went by without a post, and eventually, I stopped checking.
Years later, I found the blog again only to see one additional post. The title of this post was "Maybe I should start drinking heavily". The author talks about how she is happily dating someone and when she's happy, she just doesn't write. She needs angst to write.
At the time, I thought her words didn't apply to me, but they stuck with me. Perhaps I didn't think they applied because I had so much angst I didn't even realize I had it. But now, years later, I think of her, and I wonder if all my writing was simply out of misery. What if my well of misery dries up?
Emily Dickenson denied herself happiness because she was afraid happiness would steal her talent.
I don't believe finding Home will steal my writing, but it will change it. I guess we'll begin this new journey together.
Several hours after this, I begin churning out new ideas. Usually. Sometimes there are so many ideas, I list them. I have piles of beginnings with no endings. I have an idea box in the basement, waiting for eager eyes to eat them up and make them something worthwhile.
This time however, I don't have any ideas, and I won't rummage through old ideas to find something workable. I sit, sprawled on the couch, laptop open, Mia curled at my side, writing, without knowing where my words are taking me.
For the past few days I have opened my laptop only to stare at the cursor, write and erase a few sentences and close it again twenty minutes later. Some might call this writer's block, but I don't feel blocked. My soul just doesn't feel touched right now. So instead of searching through old ideas, I'll write, hoping something will touch my soul.
In my quest for Home, I've made many personal discoveries. My last blog talked about the ringing in my soul, causing anxiety. I believe I have uncovered the core belief that causes the ringing. The belief is this: other people know better than me.
Having uncovered this core belief means I am tiny feet away from getting rid of it. Getting rid of this belief means getting rid of the ringing, getting rid of the ringing means the panic will disappear, making the panic disappear means my life will change from what I've always known into something different. And this is where I stop and wonder.
I have often written from a place of longing and discomfort. I have always written in order to give myself a Home on the page. But what if I find my Home? I write to create order amidst chaos, but what if there is no chaos?
These past few days, I have made enormous progress towards finding a place of peace within myself. During this time, I had no desire to write. I'm not saying A=B, but I do wonder if peace has put out my writing fire. Changing myself means a change in my writing. I just don't know what that change would be.
One day, many years ago, I googled my name and stumbled upon a blog. This blog was so funny and genuine, I read every word of it back to the beginning of time. The writer of this blog became my new best friend (she just didn't know it). Every day, I checked for updates. I even submitted a question to her advice page just to see if she would answer (she did). Eventually, her blog slowed down from several weekly posts, to every other week, then months went by without a post, and eventually, I stopped checking.
Years later, I found the blog again only to see one additional post. The title of this post was "Maybe I should start drinking heavily". The author talks about how she is happily dating someone and when she's happy, she just doesn't write. She needs angst to write.
At the time, I thought her words didn't apply to me, but they stuck with me. Perhaps I didn't think they applied because I had so much angst I didn't even realize I had it. But now, years later, I think of her, and I wonder if all my writing was simply out of misery. What if my well of misery dries up?
Emily Dickenson denied herself happiness because she was afraid happiness would steal her talent.
I don't believe finding Home will steal my writing, but it will change it. I guess we'll begin this new journey together.