I really don’t know what happened. I mean I’d started with all good intentions. Check that, I started, with NO intentions but to try to write things I would enjoy. Express thoughts that I needed to put on paper. I never thought I would have an audience. So in November I began by opening the blog site and writing every day. Funny stuff serious stuff mostly observations and experiences. And the words in sentences and paragraphs flowed easily from brain to publication day after day.
I was becoming a writer. Why I am a writer. Word after word into sentence into pattern. I would post, and people would read, and I would get positive feedback and the world was spinning as it should. I AM A WRITER, and then I was not. Because a writer needs to write. And I need to write and tell stories. And I just can’t.
I am neither old nor young.. well when I was young I would have thought what I am now is old. But since I am now what I am, I am neither old nor young. And I have seen much, and every day I say, that should be written about. It would make people laugh, or cry, or think, or cuss. Whatever it is it will cause people to react… or it won’t. But the fact is I will have written. I will have created. I will have taken a blank sheet, and cluttered it with consecutive or associated thoughts and phrases.
At the culmination… a post on Facebook and Bedlam. And then feedback. And then if the trend continues as it once did, the reaction will trigger in me the hallelujah chorus… yes I AM a writer. Hallelujah, I have written, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hal-le–lu-jah. (did you sing along?) I might be good, I might be bad, but I write therefore I am. And with each succeeding and subsequent published piece the chorus quickens. A building of blog upon blog… like Ravel’s Bolero, phrase building upon phrase a crescendo, a climax, a “smoke” and a search for the next topic. I must feed this new passion.
And then one day not so long ago… the words stopped. I was surrounded still by my dogs, and cats, and friends. And the words stopped. The stories did not disappear. I am surrounded by stories. But I realized I could not write and publish what was happening in my life. It is very personal. Not too personal that I would not share… if the stories were only about my animals or about me. Or if I wrote for TMZ or People. But I am not writing for those entities, and my subjects are not Kim and Kanye. And I realized that to publish would be a “crime.” The world is small. People know people. And all of my important stories would involve people who know people and I am called to be the keeper of secrets. And so I had to withdraw. Creative Interruptus!
Premature. Creative Interuptus. Stroke after Stroke I have wanted to write. Passion building, my head lightens, my pulse quickens, I draw near to the keyboard and my mind went limp. There was and is no medicine to stimulate the moment until now.
I cannot artificially write and birth a story. It is a story or it is not. And then I caught a glimpse of a lovely little companion out of the corner of my eye. I was a beautiful story to me. It was hard, and I was instantly hard pressed rush to the keyboard. It was time to Write about not writing.. I had found my topic. Head spinning, music pounding, key stroke, key stroke…. faster, faster, can I make it last just a moment longer. Oh my God…. faster, faster….
And so the love affair can continue. And hopefully will continue. Part of the process is to refocus, to write, to publish. I need to learn what to do when there are performance issues. When I was young it was not an issue, there were always dorm room and campfire stories to be told and shared with whomever would listen. My moral compass had not been set. And now that I am not old I realize that what I love involves a kinder, gentler presentation.
And so the many stories I cannot share smolder within. Perhaps someday they can come out and play. If not I hope that the next blog will not be about not writing.