Just when you thought the purple words turned yellow and scuttled off to find a place of safety and rest…. here they are back again, trumpeting forth in rhapsodic thanks to all of you out there who purposefully take the time and energy to read my
crap ramblings. As of today, more than 10 500 of you, dear readers have indulged me and oh-blessed-my-soul most bountifully.
In the universe according to cyber writers this number is a mere blip and certainly nothing to write home about. Those big blogging boys out there – their figures screech into the half million knocking onto a million readers. Oh my. But right now, believe me, for the teeny 1.05 percent of that, I’m most grateful.
Not that numbers are everything or anything actually. I write because I think I have something to say – even to one person and because I enjoy playing around with words. I write because most times my subject impacts ME, in whatever shape or form that takes. And I’m all for shape changes – body, soul, spirit and community. I write because it takes enormous discipline to do so – and discipline, that necessary evil, usually spells a four-lettered word in my vocab.
I did the 31 days writing challenge because I’m driven by challenges and I hoped it would force me to sit down and tap out stuff on the keyboard.
Which it did and which is a miracle.
If it takes 21 days to form a habit it should follow that I’m now habitually sitting in front of my computer.
Which I am not, which means a bigger miracle is needed.
This very morning with a clear calendar I had grand plans to write a good few chapters of my book. After making my bed so I couldn’t get back into it, riding my bike, watering the plants and contemplating my day while sitting in the plant-watered garden, I rejoiced that I had the whole day ahead to get what goes on in my head – out.
Instead I found one hand cracking eggs and the other measuring coco. Baking requires no effort and it’s easy for me to do. I like easy so I do. Writing requires creative skills and lots of effort. So I don’t. At least, not often enough. Yet still, whilst mixing and making, the most profound and world changing sentences churn along with the beater – so impactful that, of course I’ll never forget them, until ten minutes later when I’m actually sitting at my desk.
They’re gone. Forever. Leaving the world a lesser place devoid of my brilliance.
And then…..oh look… Facebook.
Oh dear Lord have mercy for the rest of the day is a gonner.
Because I’m a writer. I have 10 500 reads here and others elsewhere therefor I have to be a writer.
And yet, putting off writing is one of the things I do best. Right up there with nail polish peeling, nose digging and staring out the window. I avoid writing like I avoid the back of my fridge – I’m fearful of what I might find there.
Letters, words and sentences take on a life of their own and what is planned rarely turns into what is presented. And it’s never ever perfect. Not even vaguely so. This torture is tiresome but yet I’m compelled to keep on keeping on. Regardless of the fact that others with far more fame and fortune write:
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. – Ernest Hemingway
One writer I know tells me that he sits down every morning and says to himself nicely, “It’s not like you don’t have a choice, because you do—you can either type or kill yourself.” – Ann Lamott
Bleed and kill yourself? Hardly encouraging motivators those.
Regardless, I’ll still keep on keeping on
And then…oh look…MYbook!