The Writing Returns
Could this be the first rays of motivating light warming my typing hands? Is it over yet? The loss of belief; the feeling I may never write again; avoidance, even repulsion towards the idea of sitting at my computer; closing the study door so I don't have to look at my computer. Is it over yet?
I think so. My feet are resting on a new footrest, given to me by my daughter for my fiftieth birthday. The office chair is wrapping around me like the hug of an old friend. The computer, asleep for weeks, came instantly to life—as if time had stood still.
But time doesn't stand still, and as my fiftieth year of living this life begins, it feels like I should hurry up a bit. Although it's normal for Capricorns to peak late, I still don't feel as though I have time to waste. I have so many book ideas, and books take years to write!
So rest doesn't always sit well with me. I know it's inevitable. My first book was all about understanding human energy and its cycles. Creative energy is human energy. It runs in cycles of action and reflection. I know this. I know that energy shifts from introversion to extroversion in breath-like polarity.
Which means that even as I rested, my mind was going racka-racka-racka with words. The book I read during my holidays, about adoption, wove itself into the thought form of my work-in-progress. The ideas presented in the book mirror my own work, that abandonment at birth creates a wound that never stops bleeding. My work also explores the tragic side-effect of the sharks that swim towards the blood. It's heavy work. Deep work. Like shovel-in-the-ground work that seems too hard to confront but must be done; not just to heal, but because people need to know about the sharks and the marks.
Writing memoir requires self-reflection, insight and awareness of how events influence and change people. Writing requires the emotional resiliency to keep running towards the pain. It requires research. That's what kept me picking up that book, attacking it one section at a time, before dropping it like a hot potato each day. Feelings were dredged up, but there's no denial for writers. Writing is where I have to get real. It's where I separate the shoulds from the ams, picking apart the stories I receive, holding them up to the light all undone, to be measured and weighed. The bits that give voice to wordless parts of my being resonate and are woven into my inner dialogue. New threads that need time to settle into my inner narrative.
So I understand the need to rest. The original plan was to start writing again the day after my birthday, which was Boxing Day. When the day came I was wiped, avoidant, depressed even. I closed the door to my study and collapsed onto the couch with a book. I stayed there for days, in bouts that closely resembled my work-day, so that at least I could maintain my sense of routine as I rested.
Now it's New Year's Eve and I can feel the quickening of my creative energy beginning. It started with reading the blog post of another writer, whose honesty I admire and wish to emulate. I felt a spark of energy, an opening of the mind, a rejuvenation of the spirit—the return in my belief that my words on the page aren't so bad after all.
Yes, I think I'm back:)
Leanne Margaret © 2022