I thought I had found my writing groove, getting up early to spend time with my novel before starting the day. Progress, however glacial, would grind through the mountain of resistance, and my first book would pop out the other side.
Until life happened. A week without words. Two.
What was wrong with me? Didn’t I want to write? Wasn’t there a story still in there? I could see it. Like on the other side of those clear movie walls, where the hero(ine) beats futilely against it, screaming in rage.
A year and a half after launching this dream of writing into the air, it crashed into the earth again, leaving me staring at the wreckage, not knowing what to do. I turned inwards, seeking answers.
And found one.
Writing is many things, but I realized that I write to find myself. One life isn’t enough. I don’t know how many I need. Two, three, dozens, hundreds? Through words, I can break free of the sticky tendrils binding me to this life. Like Schwarzenegger in Total Recall, dream that shining experience my life was missing.
So I put my novel away. Wrapped it in tissue paper in my mind, and slid it onto a shelf. Until. And cried. It hurt so bad. It hurts still.
With that, the dam broke, letting creativity gush forth. Insights about myself. An idea for work, burning fiercely. Giggling in yoga class. Content to stare at beautiful, dangerous nature for hours on end.
A few precious insights for my novel jotted and placed beside it. It has to stay put away for...a while. I wish I knew how long.
For now, all these new ideas need a home in my life. My real life. I need to DO for a bit, not imagine. But now I know beyond any doubts, that storytelling is part of my life forever.
And when it’s time, my novel will be there. A gift, waiting to be unwrapped. The precious ideas dreamed again.
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