Gingerly placing my fingers on the keys…. We can do this. We’re gonna do this. So strange to be so resistant to something you know you need… but my resistance is now being overcome by near insanity (notice that I started this entry talking to my fingers? not a good sign). I get some sort of sweet release when I write. It’s like a dance of discovery and creation. You stumble upon something that cannot be summed up, press your face into the lattice, and weave together what you can grasp of it until your vision becomes something tangible. It’s like taking hold of some beauty, turning it about, and setting it on the shelf, giving it, not value, but the chance to be valued as it should… even if only by yourself.
The problem being that accompanying that sweet release is the frustration of a lazy perfectionist who’s afraid of using her voice. I know, I’m some kind of contradiction. I’ve had an off-kilter, three-days-on-three-weeks-off-you-so-get-me-I-want-out-now relationship with writing. I don’t blame writing, really. I take full (or at least a good 92%) of the responsibility for our problems. I don’t call; I don’t write (I make horrible puns); I walk away from a fight and allow distraction to dust away remaining traces of priority and motivation.
In January 2012, I left for an incredible eleven month journey to eleven countries with full intention of fully documenting my experience. I did not blog for the first six months (though I was supposed to blog twice a week). When I did blog consistently (kind of) for a few months… it was mostly because a friend locked me into a “no blog, no caffeine” contract. My relationship with writing may be rocky, but my love for coffee knows no bounds. Since I’ve been home, I’ve felt a sweet nag to write. I’ve heard God whispering, “Write.”, nudging me sweetly to spill out… anything and everything. And rarely have I followed through. (I’m so thankful You’re long-suffering).
Follow-through, discipline, time management… not my strong suit, but I am brilliant when it comes to stalling (if you listen closely you’ll hear family and friends around the world releasing laughs of loving familiarity and disappointed sighs). So far today, instead of writing, I made pancakes that I didn’t really want and shared them with the dog. I made coffee (not solely to stall. I always want coffee). I checked Facebook and Tumblr a number of times… an embarrassing, not-to-be-disclosed number of times. I cleaned the kitchen. I wandered about the house, tapping on the wood, sending morse code gibberish to the carpenter bees, unwanted tenants this time of year. I counted the blank pages in my journal and thought about filling them. I looked at blank journals on Etsy. I stared at my blank computer screen. I chanted to myself “write write write”. I’ve been in near acrobatics in this old faded floral chair. I really can’t tell if she’s miffed or pleased. I stared out the window and thought about crawling out onto the roof. Surely that would help… I thought about going for a run despite my already whimpering calves. But running will not release me from this restless dance. I know what I need. I need to write. Write write write, right?
My dad says I’m a fluttering bird… I move from one thing to the next without great certainty and minimal to no planning. And I like that (to an extent). As I was driving today, I heard a commercial advertising coupons, targeting type A personalities who like to plan their meals in advance, and I thought, “Ugh! I do NOT want to know what I’m going to eat every day of the week.” And speaking of fluttering birds, they get distracted… by other fluttering birds… I just took a break from writing to freak out about the three gentlemen cardinals dancing through tender but brilliant green leaves, so bright I’d swear they glow in the dark.
So here we are… I’m not structured, and I’m easily distracted. I flutter. I flounder. I give up. So how is this writing thing ever going to work? I need at least a skeleton, a roughly sketched blueprint, and some discipline to move forward. Heaven help me. And I need accountability. So… help me? Help a fluttering bird? I’m not laying responsibility at anyone else’s feet. I’m the one who’s got to fight the laziness of my thoughts, the fear in my heart, and the disobedience in my veins. But maybe drop a line occasionally to encourage me to write a few lines of my own?
