I swear I had a million blog-lines just floating through my head last night as I drifted off to sleep.....things that were worded perfectly and required no internal editing. But as I drifted off to sleep, so did the blog-lines just float away.
I want to write, I need to write, and as I sent a dear email correspondent, I participate in 'writing practice' even when the mood or thoughts do NOT strike (like right now. F*ck. Right now.)
Writing practice was something I learned about in Creative Writing. (I know. I'm an interior designer. But before that I was an Art Student. File that under "Hey, I didn't know!" I majored in Drawing, minored in Creative Writing. They are my two loves. The computer keyboard has allowed me a fluency of the last few years that I simply did not have before).
In Creative Writing class, my lovely transplanted New-Yorker-turned-Torontian-writing professor introduced me to Natalie Goldberg and her inspirational series of books on writing, on writing the worst stuff in the world, every day if you had to, to get to the really good stuff underneath.
I know it works. My blog and some of my most passionate, beloved posts are proof of that.
The Tiny Buddha also shares thoughts on creativity and how we value it, and how the internet has allowed us to put a yardstick, a measuring tape, to our creativity, and really max out on readers, followers, on racking up numbers.
But truly, as they pointed out, and as I tentatively agree (after being rejected by Blog'Her, and after looking at blogs of note recently that have bordered on bizarre and hardly about art, life, writing, and the pursuit of all of these things, in my mind...).
Those numbers are just that, I remind myself. Numbers.
I love my writing, I derive the benefits of writing in my blog, be it only for myself.
And somedays, it may be only me who is reading it (like today, possibly).
But how does that matter? It doesn't really. I write it, for me. I read and re-read, for me.
To evaluate...state of mind, presence, level of feeling, thought.
To allow me to chart my progress, so to speak.
I sometimes think of my blog like a bank, I deposit so much emotion, so many experiences, within its little boxes, maybe to keep me from overloading.
Because I know how capable I am of doing that, of going there.
I saw a Louise Hay quote today about obstacles, and posted it on my FB.
Tonnes of obstacles lately, despite me trying to be positive, and keep a frame of mind as far as possible from the freezing landscape I referenced in my last posting.
Spilling sauce in the kitchen, on the floor, on me, has the effect of melting me into a puddle.
Seeing an old card with familiar handwriting can wring me out.
Missing M. can reach the limits so fast I've had to put lids on how often/when I think about him, and how amazing it's going to be when I see him again.
An email from my condo corp. today almost sent me into a spiral. Like, what will they do if I just email them back and say "sorry. can't deal with this right now. more in a bit".
What would a client say? I often wonder, as I sit at my desk, rampant computer virus destroying the better part of an afternoon after an innocent click of the mouse. Frozen.
Like my feelings, my writing, my face in meetings.
None of this matters, I would like to calmly (scream) say. Wait until that angel arrives at your doorstep. You, too, will do everything you can to slam the door in its face, while, even as you're slamming, a part of you realizes no door you can close will keep the angel out forever.