A Writer’s Reflection
The keyboard sometimes appears to me like a set of controls on an alien ship I’ve not yet mastered. Even the words that I type at times look like foreign commands that threaten. DELETE. TURN BACK. YOU’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.
And then..
Other times I feel like the child from “Flight of the Navigator” when the alien says, “you have the information I require to complete my mission.” I sit down and words pour out as if they were always there. It’s odd really. There are triggers in life that are almost like hints or clues around me that give me insights or information for stories or messages I must tell. Interesting People. Strange synchronicities. Funny shit. Tragedy. Recurring themes. If I’m dull, I will wallow in life’s dramas and do nothing but sulk, and if I am wise, I will harness the emotion in my writing. It takes quite a lot of responsibility; I have to train it like a muscle as do all writers if they want to be great.
The result?
There are moments when I’ve finished something I’m proud of and I’m giddy. I reread every sentence and savor how it sounds in my head. It isn’t too much longer where I suddenly feel like what I’ve written is like a bone I’ve discovered and buried in the yard. I guard it, dig it up, and chew on it from time to time – -but it doesn’t quell the itch, the never-ending urge to uncover more samples!
For what? For me? Is this for me? or is it for the greater good? Will what I produce truly mean anything to anyone? Or, am I really just burying bones?
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why it’s so difficult to want to do it – – Something we love should be easy right? How much effort should I expend to press forward and push out the best work possible in the shortest amount of time?
Comparison is a Deep Grave
I look at other writers, they’ve nearly perfected their process and produce great works in a timely manner. Some are published authors. or Best sellers. The world has favored few. I don’t need insane recognition. I just want to afford go have the time and energy to write what I like. How do others make the time? I begin to question if I’m not doing enough to make my journey possible. I look at other areas of my life that need optimization in order to better serve this passion of mine. I recognize I’ve chosen to miss out on, give up, or ignore certain parts of my life in an attempt to hold my torch for what I felt or what I thought could be really important…
Writing.
But, is it important? Does it matter? Who really gets to decide? Maybe, Nothing I write will ever be that important. Does that mean I just quit?
“Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least”?
~Goethe
There are many things in life that I’d like beyond just writing. And many things that If I hadn’t chosen to do or experience, I don’t believe my writing would be at the level it is now.
Still.
There are many sacrifices I have to make in my life if I want to be a writer – just as anyone choosing to excel at a specific skill must use discernment in order to make room for improvement to be possible. But, as writers we must also recognize when opportunities or experiences will be valuable to us, not only to help us become better writers, but to be more well-rounded human beings living a more satisfying and fulfilling kind of life.
Many writers had alternate jobs that fueled their journey. So this brings me at the often discovered conclusion that it’s more about the journey right?
I find it fascinating how my writing has evolved throughout my life. How love snuck in, I embraced warmth and vulnerability, and it presented itself in my work like reflections, answers, and even more questions. It’s so fluid. It can be moody like raindrops on the windshield of a parked car at night. Only a street lamp light. It can be poetic and still not rhyme. It can be curious. It can be brutal like the blizzard of 1969. It can rhyme. It can move. It can even make me cry. If it can make me cry, does that mean that it matters?
I still don’t know. It still might not. But, It does matter to me that I do it.
