I am writing.
Not reading about writing or thinking about writing or imagining myself in the future as a writer.
I am writing.
And it’s the kind of danger writing that shows me how much self-pity I’ve entertained in my life. It’s showing me how the things that went terribly wrong could have been catastrophic, but weren’t. It’s showing me how amazingly awesome my life is right now, even with some of my expectations unmet. Even if I am still at home with no career after investing in college, even if my daughter still doesn’t live with me. I am not perfect, but actually,
my life sort of is.
It is fuller and free in a way I never imagined I could live, even with all the obligations and responsibilities that arrive to frustrate and challenge and interrupt me.
I wake up at 4:30 am for no good reason. My writer’s-mind dialogue begins to kick in before I even open my eyes. Sentences flow and I have to run downstairs, start the water for tea, grab my pen and notebook. But getting to the notebook is physical comedy. I walk downstairs with a dog and a cat who are dying to be fed, who nudge my legs, who dash under my feet while I grip the handrail and pray I make it to the bottom without breaking my legs. Once I make it to the sink, Ozzie does a sniffy whiny jumping dance, herding me to the dog food bag. Sabrina, our new cat, is just as beggy. Annie cat, who is usually the most un-needy, low maintenance pet, asks to go out, then in, then out, then in, for the first hour of the day. I clean the litter box while the three of them wolf their kibble, just in time for Sabrina to do her smelly damage in the fresh box. She scatters the litter so then I must get out the vacuum. By this time my husband is getting ready for work, and we chat before he walks out the door. Alone for ten minutes with my hot tea, I often feel so distracted that I’ve lost the early morning dialogue and choose to sit in front of my monitor and enjoy the morning scroll through fb land. Usually someone will pop in to chat. By then, Elliot comes down and is ready for his turn at the desktop, and breakfast.
When my mind is most needing to write out those pure clear thoughts, I lose them with the morning drama. It doesn’t matter if I get up at 3 am, the whole operation is triggered by a single action; me walking down to the kitchen.
But lately I’m finding that it doesn’t matter. The story is still arriving in bits. One day I procrastinated writing the one scene I’d promised myself to write. And it nagged me all day. When I finally got it out, the satisfaction and relief was immense. One little paragraph, one tiny scene.
Sometimes I find myself writing long into the morning while doing school with Elliot. I find that more often I’m discussing the storyline with my husband in the evenings while we make dinner. Sometimes I sneak in a line or two on scraps of paper when the ideas arrive while I’m doing ordinary things, like showering or sweeping.
I am writing.
And spring is near.
And anything is possible.
And right now I’m not even blocked by the fear of someone not liking what I have to say. Everyone can write their own memoir and tell their own story.