…are days to think…
Some days I have trouble writing. Not little trouble. Big brick wall, can’t squeeze a word out kind of trouble, as in Foggy Brain Syndrome (FBS), the recently discovered cause of foggy thinking; that horrid, thought-paralyzing infection that strikes with no warning.
The connection between FBS and writing is a mathematical equation discovered by Einstein: Foggy thinking x foggy writing + not knowing what to say = not good reading. This equation is also the secret combination to the Eighth floor of the Creative Underworld’s Seven floors of Mal/Discontent.
I can point to a huge pile of stuff about all the things writers are supposed to do to become a master (or mistress) of the technique, the process, the art of writing and here’s what it can be distilled to: just write. Even writing badly will eventually lead to something — a good sentence among a thousand that leads somewhere else that will take you to a place in didn’t know you wanted to go. Or could get to.
Then edit. And ask people to read what you write. Get a discipline, a practice of writing. Write by the formula and fill in the sentences and paragraphs and pages, but ONLY until you want to colour outside the lines with your own pen or PC, your own words, own sentence structure, your own story, with your own voice.
All that works except for when it doesn’t.
Some days it doesn’t matter that I have trouble writing and some days it does and why it does today is because it feels as if there is something stewing in the spices of words and it feels as if it has something to do with oh, this life of a slightly bent and uncommon path; of being a woman, of being a lesbian, of being an individual and not a personality. Big deal. A feeling that I feel, but can’t pull out and into words for love nor money, which is not to say I haven’t tried. There are now piles and piles of false starts, mindless muffintop
meandering words, amounting to nuffin’ working. Words are jumbled and forced and false. Maybe even — horror of horrors — contrived.
Some days, I question if I really want to write or just like the idea of it. Curiously, I rarely have this issue with business writing. It’s all the other writing I’m having trouble with and that might point to it not being a writing problem at all, but a me problem.
And so, when writing just isn’t working, when it can’t be pushed or pulled or grasped or dug out, that’s a cue to stop and listen, specially if I can’t push through: time to take a break. I’m doing it. Not going to push. Not going to fight.
Today has now officially turned into one of those Some Days that are the days to just let it be. Time to let mind wander and drift and not to think a thing, just sense, feel, notice. Not quite meditating, not quite monkey mind. An in-between place, but not necessarily a safe place. It’s dangerous to release my mind from its moorings to fly and be free because it will fall off the edge of the planet and land Goddess knows where and when that happens some of my tribe will wonder if I have lost my mind which is puzzling to me as I tend to I think I’ve actually reclaimed it.
But some days, a lesbian can’t fuss too much about what other people think. Some days, a lesbian has to do what she feels is the right thing to do even if it separates her from her tribe for a few minutes, days or forever. She goes it alone; focusing her strength to ignore great shoes, great bodies, killer smiles, infectious laughter, freckles, cuddling and that amazing mind and amazing love.
Some days a lesbian has to step into that hyperbaric chamber to set her mind free, to wander the cosmos and touch the heartbeat harmonics of the universe, find a resonate word or image or thought or sound to sit with for a while and just be for a while before flying back out ready for the next round.