scribblechic

I’ve been looking for words, straining against doubt for the love of an impossible task. I promised myself, now that we are settled, I would reserve a space in my day, at this moment of my life, for the work of fulfilling a private goal with a longer writing exercise.

Arrogantly I assumed fortune would accommodate my intentions with remnants of my lost story, a thread that would unravel into completion. Instead the mechanics of creativity have been more painfully laborious.

It’s far simpler to capture words when they flow from fleeting inspiration.  A moment’s awakening materialized. It is much harder to push against the resistance of finding those hidden treasures in the dark of silence. Some days my muse is a stubborn companion.

The timing of my endeavor serendipitously coincided with a national writing program; one I have not enlisted for support. It was tempting to engage an existing community for direction, but, perhaps mistakenly, it feels as if the work of writing should begin from a more solitary pursuit.

Still, I admire those souls who gather in a public place of accountability for the completion of a personal goal. It is quite brave to wear your heart on your sleeve; to sound out your mistakes in a voice of determined vulnerability.

As November marks a time of mindful appreciation for the bounty of our good fortune, I am thankful for you, those generous companions in my clumsy meandering among imperfect musings. Thank you for this safe space of creativity and accountability.

Lately I am lost between the narrative of my days and the story in my mind; words pressing against my thoughts as I work with a frantic serenity to gather them quickly into print.

All or nothing, it is a terrifying need that consumes and ignites sleepy places in my soul. I have never felt more still while the wheels of my distraction spin with reckless disregard for time.

I am both hungry and sated in my pleasure, terrified that this moment might pass and leave me in want of something I cannot fathom loosing.

Every moment is a contradiction as I disappear from familiar places in my day, more present in my own skin as my fingers transpire the secrets of my dreams.

Some days I am haunted by a silent unraveling as words in want of paper work against the stillness of my pen. Gossamers of truth that play against the light; memories that catch against the sharp corners of lost minutes.

In these moments, I wonder this: what if we are given but one story to share or squander?

This week a kind comment challenged me with a curious invitation to connect with strangers on the subject of writing processes. My instinctive reaction was to withdraw from the opportunity; the formality of the phrase “writing process” felt fraudulent as it applies to my relationship with writing. Then, in the day between the invitation and this sharing I gathered a wish for my son that spoke to my doubts.

As a gesture of gratitude for the opportunity to explore my process and honor my counsel to my children in their pursuits, I would like to acknowledge the informality of my process and answer the questions posed to me.

What are you working on? As my writing endeavors to capture intimate musings, I would humbly suggest that I am working on self rather than a literary compilation. Each written wondering is a step in my journey to greater consciousness.

How does your work differ from others in its genre? I’m certain the majority of my writings are universal in their themes. If my story is unique it is only for my interpretation.

Why do you write what you do? I write to capture questions and explore my thoughts, pausing the passage of time with an exercise that nurtures my soul and brings me joy.

How does your writing process work? I write when the words seem to press against my mind’s eye, just askew of my tongue. I am most productive in the earliest hours of the day when my home is at rest and, occasionally, in the midst of empty busyness when a thought interrupts other endeavors with the disruptive forcefulness of a petulant child.

The elegant simplicity of these questions was deceptively complicated. Thank you to Derek at Playing In The City With Trains for the lovely encouragement. Rather than name another with the responsibility of sharing their process, I would welcome those interested in embracing this experience to link their reflections in the comments below that we might create a conversation as a community of writers nurturing individual voices, collectively.

Tonight I invited this little piece of myself, these reflective ramblings, cautiously and consciously into a conversation among family friends. It was a new experience, one that contradicted a precedent of intentional anonymity. Here my stories are unweighted by our names and images; enveloping others into this space bred vulnerability.These sharings are my love letters to my children, my husband, and myself. Simple reminders of the life we share, a safeguard for our story least we forget. Uncertain rather I should guard my words or share them, I am trying to absorb the uncertainty of inviting honesty.