The last couple of weeks I’ve been quietly concerned that my writing days are numbered. No longer am I bursting with shit I want to share. I’ve felt unfocused, dry and deflated, but mostly ok with it. I do declare, it has up until this moment, felt like the blistering insights and heartfelt confessions have left the building. I’ve been concerned because I haven’t really cared that I don’t want to write, that every time I think about writing something other than free writes, I feel like I’m being choked by invisible hands. The not caring is actually more distressing than the not writing and feeling like a strangled saltine, cause I’ve been dry, and the dryness passes, but so far I hadn’t let go of the clinging to this big idea….the big I’M A WRITER idea. This was my big fucking dream, the one I’ve held on to like a teddy bear, like a soul mate, because I’ve believed this dream will most certainly, above all things, save my life. I thought it was my calling. And because in many ways I feel powerless to change my nasty habits of procrastination and perfection, I’ve surrendered my dream to fate…..and I’ve started painting. Mourning my lost passion, I’ve been getting down with cheap acrylics, making messes, losing time, and actually finding a deep sense of peace while splashing paint on paper without giving a shit about the final product.
It’s like meeting a smart, funny, sexy, authentically spiritual man right after you’ve broken up with a man who not only possessed all of those qualities, but he also knew all of your sweet and not-so-sweet spots, loved you to smithereens, and you thought he was IT. But then he was gone, and while you missed him, you simply didn’t have the energy to run him down. And now you have to go through all the awkward getting- to- know- you’s with Mr. Probably a Good Substitute But Still Not Him But He’ll Do And Maybe In Time I’ll Learn To Love Him The Same Way But I Doubt It.
Have I gone too far?
Wait….am I writing?
Here is a blistering insight perched on top of a heartfelt confession: In the last couple of weeks, I have been riding an internal tsunami. I’ve been thrown around by wild invisible storms. Shit has been flying around my insides , exorcisms and paroxysms have been stealing my passion’s thunder, and finally a few days after the clouds have passed, I get it. I just got it. I’ve been way too full. Full of the present letting go of the past and the future slipping into the now, full of all the dust and chaos that comes with reconstruction. Who had time to write? Sure, I had time to stare out the window, watching the day melt into evening, and to spend hours throwing colors on paper and stuffing my mind with fabulous fiction, but to sit down and attempt to say anything about anything?… all I had was…..wow….and I’m delighted to discover that my other dreams that were shattered over a year ago are slowly putting themselves back together, but this go around, I’m spending MORE TIME on the foundation. I’m in no hurry.
And since I’m traveling to Aspen next week for a writing festival, and beginning a memoir writing class soon, I suppose it may be time to reconsider my romance with writing, while seeing where this painting thing goes…cause one just never knows.
We shall see. Painting, writing, and me….sitting in a tree…Kay -eye – S -S -eye-N-Gee!