People who genuinely pursue their passion immerse themselves
in their craft constantly. Hours gently
shift into days when one is creating.
Musicians have often played for hours at sheds or concerts. Their love of music supersedes the need for
sleep. Painters often collapse from exhaustion
unwillingly when they are in the throes of a creative trance.
My mentor at work tells me that I have a gift and I’m
wasting it. He tells me that many people
struggle to conjure what was given to me by God. He tells me that I have so much promise and
the ability to make money with the stroke of keys or a blot of ink. I don’t even need money for a business start
up. My business would require no
overhead and profit as soon as the first manuscript is accepted. Out of a five day work week, I think he tells
me this all five days.
I wish that it were that easy. I wish that I could awake before the sun,
start up my laptop and write well into the early hours of the next day. I wish that I would have to set reminders for
eating. I wish that bathroom breaks
would be unwelcomed. But it’s not that
easy for me.
When I was a child I would incessantly. Writing was my escape. Writing was my friend. Writing didn’t judge or tease me. Writing didn’t care what I wore. Or that I was a nerd. Or that I had big glasses. Writing was mine. I would sleep a lot because sleeping would
enable me to create stories in my head.
As an adult I still find myself going to bed just to allow my imagination
to create. It was solace in a difficult
world.
As an adult, I write sporadically. I started a blog to encourage me to
write. Well I’m lucky if I can churn out
one entry in a month. This year, 2012,
is the first year that I have written consistently. Consistently meaning actually writing. For years I have floated through without
writing more than a Facebook status. I
called it a mean case of writer’s block.
I didn’t want to think about writing.
In fact I loathed the very idea of doing so.
What I don’t understand is why. Why is something that used to be so much part
of me so distant from me now? Why do I
no longer take comfort in turning words in poetry and prose? Why is it a chore? Why do I now have to be disciplined in order
to create?
These are questions to which I have to find answers. I believe if I can figure out what happened
and why my relationship with writing is so strained, I will be able to write
consistently and well again.
My friend/writing coach/writing group leader is helping me
on this journey. She tells me that I
have to take one step at a time. I have
to start small. Start by writing a
little something every day or every other day and build up.
But I have to want to do it.
I have to find the will. I have
to find my voice and keep it this time.