Finding inspiration to pursue a writing life can feel difficult some days. We are surrounded by a multitude of reasons to procrastinate on the one thing we are so passionate about….forsaking it for the greater good of one’s family, work, or community. For me, this has not been an accurate excuse in the past few years.
After raising five children to adulthood and with the ability to work from home (Thank you Universe), I now find myself with an exquisite amount of time in which to dedicate to my writing. I can get up early, or stay up late. I can rearrange all those hours in the day to accommodate whatever writing practice I choose. There is, my friends, NO excuse.
Yet, I procrastinate. I whimper. I dodge. I stall.
“What the heck is wrong with you?”I scream at the mirror.
Truth is, I lost my juju on this…the wheels seemed to stop turning. I went back to school, after 42 yrs, to seek a degree I once thought I didn’t care about. Now, I do. And with this endeavor, time has altered toward classwork assignments, textbook readings, and undergraduate testing tribulations. It is taking me awhile…I am enjoying the journey, and soaking up the knowledge like one fat sponge. I do not want to waste time, but neither do I wish to blow over it, as I did once-upon-a-time in high school.
Exploring new information and insights into our world and the global community is fascinating. It opens my brain, strengthens my heart, forges new passions to make a difference. Even at my age. I am relearning a history that was incorrect when I was younger, and discovering links in science unheard of years ago. This is not only exciting, but transformational. It upends my thoughts and those accepted beliefs, forcing me to become aware. Aware that things have changed.
They have changed all right. I spend writing time, with notebooks and keyboard tapping out citations upon essay after essay. I know this will not lessen for years, as I continue on this journey. But this is okay, I tell myself. I am writing. WRITING. It is different, academic, structured, but it is writing.
However, in the past months, I have been itchy. Itchy, edgy, unsatisfied. I need more. I need to write from another place. I need to put thoughts down, reflect, and explore my own inner world again. And I must write my stories. Stories of mystery and suspense, loyalty and loss, fear and drama, humor and design.
And so I begin. First with my steady freddy morning pages. These are my anchor into my practice. Once I begin this, I know I am serious. I have a COMMITMENT. It does not take long before I am solidly writing, daily. The stories are still percolating, but I feel their presence. I will do this, finish those drafts, complete the 7 unedited books for publishing, and begin again. It feels good. Now.