Pen-y Thoughts

If you read my other blog, “Neurotic, Yet Classy”, that title may sound familiar.  Apparently, I’m a forgetful writer. I’ve been known to write something, tuck it away (or click save), and forget all about it.  Well, tonight, I’ve stumbled upon another buried treasure.

I was moving files from my laptop (where I had lazily saved them temporarily) to my thumbdrive (for keepsies) when I came across a Word document titled “writing”.  Look what I found….

From above, a mere speck of orange bobbing on an endless rolling sea, my raft is small and empty.  Beneath me, the gentle rocking of the ocean lulls me deeper into my thoughts.  Inside.  It will be weeks before I know where I’m going.  Inside.  My emotions, like the salty water beneath me, are never still.

To the east, from where the sun rises, I see the shadow of land in the distance.  My marriage.  My home.  My family.  My children.  My world.  The shoreline stretching as far north and south as I can see.  Its jagged edges crawling with people, activity, conflict, distractions.

To the west, a small island lies in wait.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  Silent.  Yet, not completely alone.  There, I see freedom.  Escape.  Tenderness and warmth.

Wasting here in this raft, my heart transforms itself daily.  My thoughts never quiet themselves.  As words and voices swell in and out of my mind like the tide; I wonder if I will ever reach land again.  Which way will the currents carry me?  Is it wrong that I choose not to paddle?  I only want to sleep.  Tuck myself in the bellows of this dainty raft, shielding myself from the world with nothing but rubber and air.

Air.  What protection will that offer me?  I’m exposed.  Like the sun on my skin, the world is free to burn me at will.  No longer can I hide from it.  If I close my eyes, it does not go away.

I need a drink.  My soul is dehydrated.  I am depleted.  For now, I’ll sleep.

In my dreams, I’m walking on the beach.  My toes revel in the soft, warm sand.  The wind on my face assures me I’m alive.  As the cool water washes over my feet, I sink into the earth.  I am connected to this world.  I am committed to this path on which I walk.  Behind me, I leave a trail.  Evidence of my actions.  Looking ahead, I am happy.  I am content.  I know there is warmth and safety where I’m headed.  But where is that?  Where am I?

At that, I return to the raft.  Once again, we are floating, lifeless.  Watching the water around me live, I am jealous.  Might it know something I don’t?  Is it possible that the water knows where it is destined to go?  Does it have a direction?  A plan?  A road map for its journey?

I was getting caught up with my Google Reader today when I came across this post.  Just another post.  Nothing too profound, overall.  However, as with a lot of things, I think half of the “magic” of profundity is in timing.  The reader (in this case, me) has to be in the right place to hear the message.  Today, this is what I read that spoke to me where I am today, this week, right now in my life as a writer. 

2. Write to one person is classic writing advice – which doesn’t make it any less valuable.  Switch off the imagined readers, the reactions, the internet voices, focus on one person… and then write – direct – to them.  I’m now writing my memoir to one of you lucky readers, and it really does make a difference to the way I feel about the writing, and the way the words spill out onto the page.

And…

8. Learn from your gremlins. Wilson reminded me this month not to be afraid of writer’s block because it will take you further – once you’ve opened up your mind.  I’ve probably learned more from my own blocks than anything else this month (and yes, I’m still standing).

This week I struggled with a variety of little pieces.  None of them “clicked”.  Why?  In retrospect (after reading #2), I was trying to write to a COLLECTIVE audience.  I can think of pieces I’ve written to my husband, friends, family, or even TO MYSELF that were raw.  They came alive.  The emotions, even today if I reread them (after pulling them out of my underwear drawer or some other very sophisticated filing system), are still RIGHT THERE.  I read the words and walk back in time to the moment it was written or the moment about which it was written.  My theory is, if it is that powerful to me, it will be powerful to a reader, as well.  Today, I will take this advice to heart and remember it as I write again tonight.

Regarding my second connection, they took the words right from my mind.  As I mentioned above, I struggled with piece after piece this week.  I had some successes, but when I sat down to write a particular sort of piece, it just wasn’t happening.  Many people think of writer’s block as a temporary INABILITY to write.  To me, though, writer’s block is also the inability to move on.  Not unlike a tunnel through a mountain, you cannot go over or around it.  You have to just GO THROUGH IT.  Suffer through it.  Work your way through it.  Sometimes, that means writing something else.  Today, I wrote a letter.  Earlier in the week, I wrote this after muddling through some more failed attempts:

Today is one of those days when the words are itching the inside of my head — clawing to get out — but I can’t hear them.  Perhaps it’s because I’m tired.  Maybe it’s Little Laura and her perkiness and meddling.  Where did all my words go between last night and today?  Did they lose their voices between then and now?  All I can hear is Mary Poppins and Laura screaming her ABC song — while she kicks, and bounces, and squirms.  And, with the sound of this song, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, I think I shall retire for the night. 

Now, here’s what I love about quick writes like the one above.  Most of it is crap, yes.  However, I really like the words, “words are itching the inside of my head — clawing to get out — but I can’t hear them.”  Even at a road block, engine stuck in idle, you can move forward a little bit.  On another day, at another time, I might lift that line and write from it.  See where that road takes me……