This weeks Tuesday 2 Think post comes from Esperanza over at Stumbling Gracefully. Not surprisingly, many of us blog writers share a passion for writing… I love this post from Esperanza. I love how the words just tumble out. Check our her blog for some great writing and lovely photography.
Also, I am looking for more Tuesdays 2 Think writers… I have someone on deck for March 1st, but after that I think I am open. Let me know you want a Tuesday by e-mailing me at amoment2think at gmail dot com.
Now here is Kait:
I’ve been thinking about this for two weeks. What to write for my Tuesdays 2 Think post. I pondered possible topics. I reread the original prompt (several times). I revisited the subsequent entries. I told myself that I had time, that I’d think of something. I counted the days until my deadline. I told myself not to worry; inspiration would surely hit.
And then suddenly I woke up and it was Valentine’s Day. February 14th. And before I could idly dream of heart shaped chocolates, it hit me. After 14 marches 15. And February 15th would be my Tuesday 2 Think. I had less than 24 hours to bang this baby out.
And yet I couldn’t figure out what to “think” about. And it was making me kind of depressed. I mean surely I had something, outside of my daughter, to talk about. I’m a relatively interesting person. I have friends who enjoy my company. I can make people laugh. I quiet a room of 32 young adults dozens of times a day. I went to college and earned a Masters. I’ve traveled all over the world. I speak two languages. I practice mindfulness, acceptance and loving-kindness in the Buddhist tradition. I adore photography. I pursue my life with wit, ingenuity and ardor. Surely I can think of something, one simple thing, I’m passionate about.
And yet, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Tumbleweeds and such. All those trite metaphors of barren emptiness.
I kept singing those National lyrics in my head. “I better get my shit together, better gather my shit… You could drive a car through my head in five minutes from one side of it to the other.”
I was losing hope. I was despondent. Panic was setting in.
When I casually mentioned this complete failure to identify something that inspires me to my man he stared at me incredulously. What about your writing? He asked, with a tone like my middle schoolers spout when they can’t seem to understand how I could be so inane. Or did I infuse that tone into his words myself?
What about my writing?
It’s true that my writing is something I’m very passionate it about. Writing ignites a fire inside of me. Writing not only allows for self-expression, it fosters a connection with others, keeps a record of my life and encourages my creativity.
Can I write a post about… writing? Some how it feels like a cop out.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize that writing is my true passion. When I read a good book, I’m inspired to put a pen to paper. When I begin a post, I feel the world at my fingertips. Writing allows me to discover myself. Writing is my passport to creative communities. Writing solidifies core beliefs while challenging them. Writing exercises my imagination. Writing makes me whole.
I used to write in journals. Endless diatribes scrawled across countless pages. These were purely therapeutic pieces, not meant for others’ eyes. But deep inside I felt there was more. I devoured the written word and ached to emulate what I read. I longed to piece things together, word by word. I aspired to mold something meaningful from the mundane. I yearned to be a writer but I didn’t know what being a writer was.
I read once that writers have to write; the words are constantly flowing – each moment lived as a descriptive narrative. Writers cannot function without getting it down on paper. I did not suffer from this compulsion, so by the transitive property, I was not a writer. I lamented the fact that fact and moved on.
Then I started my blog. It brought focus to my diatribes. It forced me to interpret the minutiae of my life. Simply put, it helped me make sense of things at a time when I definitely needed things to make sense. Suddenly I did feel urgency to bring narrative to the circadian. Suddenly I was jotting down that which I would return to. Suddenly I felt like, well, a writer.
And it felt wonderful. I’d found a piece of myself that I never knew was missing. I felt validated. I felt whole.
My writing brought me other forms of approval. My blog provided the opportunity to participate in a community of like-minded women who were driven by the same compulsion. Each of these women was weaving all the dangling threads of her life into something beautiful and unique. As I contributed my own efforts, relationships were formed. Not only did they comment on the design of my life’s tapestry but they pressed their fingers against the stitching, experiencing it’s very substance. For the first time in my life, I felt I was presenting an honest account, an authentic version of myself. And it was being accepted, even celebrated.
As the months passed my drive to write grew stronger. My posts morphed from prosaic play-by-plays to polished pieces. I was actually saying something and, occasionally, I was saying it well. I tentatively began to take pride in my work. Eventually, I wanted more.
Recently I’ve taken my writing to a new level. I’ve authored a children’s book and am laboring over it’s illustrating. Since I wrote that original manuscript I’ve birthed dozens of ideas. I have to write them down for fear they’ll get erased or written over. I have plans for bilingual books, integrating another great passion of mine with my writing. I have hopes of young adult fiction. I actually believe my dream of being a writer, a real writer, might come true.
In the meantime I will continue to etch my thoughts across the page. Stumbling upon the precise word, weaving together an impeccable sentence, fashioning the perfectly adorned paragraph, these are the moments I live for. The fruits of this labor compel me to cherish each and every day. These prose are the legacy I hope to leave, my imprints upon this short time here. And if nothing more than this ever comes of it, I will still know the worth of every word I have written.