I write the words. I’m all about the words. I am the words. Usually, I share a lot of words here. There’s something, however, I need and want to write that will make that cease temporarily. My blog will be taking a creation vacation.
There is a battle being waged, my friends, and it’s all in my head. Do I write something or stay silent?
I wandered into my stats, which I don’t usually do, because, well, I don’t. I somehow discovered that I’ve written 37,350 words in 2018 on this blog.
“That’s, like, half a book!” Muse yelled in my head.
In case you missed it, I was so happy to be the featured writer yesterday at Urszula’s site, Confessions of a Broccoli Addict. She offers a series called Monday Inspirations. Contributors write about authors and books that inspire them. I wrote about Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
“The world today does not understand… the need to be alone… What commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it – like a secret vice!”
Just one introvert speaking to another, from almost 60 years ago now.
Don’t miss it!
Getting out of the shower last night, I had another one of my drip and runs. The ideas were coming so fast, I couldn’t dry off completely before running to my room to grab a pen and paper. I don’t bother signing in or turning on the computer — don’t want to get electrocuted after all.
I managed to keep the towel around me and make only a small puddle on the floor as I hurriedly scribbled the thoughts that were dripping from my brain. The stories in me that are begging to be written were talking so fast, I couldn’t keep up. They were telling me their tales at the same time, like a crowd before a live performance starts — all murmur without being able to really make out the words. But the overarching theme was clear: “Write me! No, write me!”
I scribbled. And then I whined: I know. I know! I want to spend time with you, too. But the life. The adult things. You all know how much time they can take. Work. My life for weeks now, nothing but work. It’s not bad in some respects.
But in some ways it is:
not knowing what day it is
having my back ache from leaning over technical doohickeys all day
not having time to actually do something worth blogging about
missed photo opportunities
being too tired to read the stack of books after reading words on various screens all day
having little energy to work on my own writing, which apparently is getting antsy
So I’m backdating this post (it’s a day late) and I’m working into the night, even though my eyes are struggling to see through the brightness and my fingers are more often hitting the wrong keys. I’m determined to get everything done and get ahead a little so I can really take off this weekend.
I hope I don’t get there and then wonder what I’m supposed to do with myself. Have you ever had the kind of momentum and busyness that keeps you so busy you forget what you used to do before?
Thankfully, I have my Muses whispering — read yelling — in my ears. Of course, they wait until I’m mid-shower and decide to come out at break-neck speed. With my schedule lately, though, I’ve left them little choice.
I just hope when I sit down to spend time with them, they still want to hang out with me. Of course, if they don’t, there’s a stack of books, my camera collecting dust, my car wanting to see sights other than the road to and from the places I’m required to be.
Only 48 hours. It’s a marathon, but I can make it. I see the finish line! More importantly, I see my stories, waiting and wanting to be told. I’m almost there! Wait for me.
*Pardon my French, literally. Correctly, it should read la troisième partie de quatre. The FrAmerican in the title says “part three of four.” Close enough.
I love words so much, they get their own post. I grew up with books and magazines in my hands so often, I thought my fingers were made of paper (no, not really… it’s a metaphor, just one of the zillions of amazing devices you can use with words!). I jumped for joy when the Scholastic and Troll Book Club boxes arrived at my classroom doors. I wrote endlessly whilst pretending to listen to my religion teachers in high school. I love words so much, I studied them in college and chose a career where I use them all the time.
Words let me say what I want to say, can’t say, wish I had said, or didn’t know I would say. Sitting down to write means entering a zone where time and space don’t exist, where thoughts I may not be fully aware I was thinking come out. They start someplace I’m not quite sure of, work their way through my subconscious then my brain eventually emerging from my fingertips onto the keys to the screen. The fact that they start to want to come out while I’m driving or in the shower with no writing implement nearby ~ a minor inconvenience considering the power and the gift that words are for me.
Words celebrate life. Words mourn and grieve. Words make me laugh (and I strive to make others laugh, too). Words process and understand. Words show me what I might want to tuck away and keep hidden. Words shine a light. Words reveal truths.
Words take me to worlds I may never see or that don’t really exist. Words move, inspire, encourage, engage, uplift, reassure, express, and delight.
Creative writing, letters, journals, scribbles on Hello Kitty notepaper. Art, connection, introspection, silliness.
Squiggly marks on paper that form words that form sentences to make paragraphs that turn into essays, stories, novels, plays, and even memories.
The most powerful thing on Earth: the power to move, to feel, to create.
With words, through words, I am magic. I am visible. I am awakened. I am alive.
As I said I would in the latest issue of Tara’s Take, each Tuesday until we stuff ourselves silly as a nation, I’m writing about Thanksgiving and what I’m grateful for. In the four posts before the holiday, I’m exploring the little things that make life as fun as it can be. I’m all about that, along with tiny moments, connection, silliness, fun, and joy.