Compulsions

Thoughts I've encountered recently:

• All writers read, but not all readers write.
• Writers write because there isn't anything else to do.
• Sign me up for that book, Mom.
  

And when I say "encountered" I mean - they stopped me in my tracks and wrestled me to the ground. I say that I am a writer. My job title includes the word. I have been compelled more than once by internal an external forces to put fingers to keyboard or pen to paper and write.

I get hung up on form sometimes. That has been my excuse lately. "I can't write a novel"
But there are thoughts in my head that need expressing. Maybe they will be letters. Maybe they will be essays. I hope some of them turn into the story about an imaginary elephant that my son has signed up for on his Christmas wish list.

What stops me? I say the demands of my job stop me. I say the need to parent my children stops me. I pick up books to read other voices and quiet the narrative in my own brain for awhile. But it comes down to this.... the raw honesty that I know is required to tell the stories in my heart and head scares the living daylights out of me. It would be compelling reading - I know I am good at funny, and poignant, and absurd.... but I don't feel brave enough yet to bring those things to light. I make excuses to not write - but what I really mean is - I'm afraid.

To say even that makes me think I am a wimp. But I have read powerful writers who tell the whole truth. To be so exposed, so open to interpretation, interrogation, and analysis is terrifying.

But it's just words. Words.... not me. Yes. And no. My words. My thoughts. My experience and choices.

Whew. In some ways, this blog is a test of myself, to see what I am capable of sharing, and what fear I can overcome. I am compelled to write, but I am not always brave enough to do so.

so... about this weekend....

As I type this, it is late (Ha!!! 8:53 pm... late!!!) on Sunday. I am listening to my son perform his usual bedtime gymnastics as he settles down to sleep. The cat is sitting by me on the couch, and I wish there could just be a little more time in this almost perfect weekend.

I read a book. I saw a movie. I ate a delicious meal involving pan-seared duck in a chili sauce. I insulated the attic. I made a pumpkin pie. I visited with family and friends. I practiced tap dancing. I did not fold laundry, watch football, clean my bedroom, scrub the floors, or clean the toilets. I made a conscious choice to ignore yard-work.

I am tired.... but it's the kind of tired that comes from spending time on the things I enjoy - not the tiredness of dreading tasks. Those other things still need to be done, and I'll do them - eventually. But I do not regret the time spent in the company of others. I think I need that more sometimes.

Boxes

There's a ubiquitous phrase that I'm starting to hate - "Think outside the box."
What box? A shoe box? A boxy car? A situation you are stuck in? The compartment of expectations that people have for you? Honestly, what good does it do to merely think outside that box?

Why am I thinking about boxes? Because I hate feeling like I've been put in one. I rebel against other's expectations for me. I don't want to be coddled and protected and kept on a shelf. I need and want to know that I'm capable that I can try things that challenge me, and *IF* I fail... my family and friends will be there to pick me up and say " That was a GREAT try!"

How will you know what you can do if you don't try? How small will your world get if you stay in the box? How small will *you* get if you stay in the box?

LIVE outside that box. Stretch out big. Push yourself. You'll have plenty of time in a box later.

September, I hardly knew ye.

Dear September -

I don't remember what I did this month. I know there was a national holiday. I know my son turned 4. I know the weather went from summer to a lovely autumn. And I worked. A lot. I hope that next year, I have more time to enjoy you, and that you are more than just a fleeting moment that goes too fast.

Sincerely,
Me

Zero to 4 in the Blink of an Eye

What happens when you blink:


Happy Birthday little man.