Friday, August 31, 2012
It should not matter where the writing comes from or how the writing is done. The writing could come from a sad memory, or a sentimental musing, or the simply fact that I cleaned the cat's litter this morning. The writing could be done in my journal, handwritten in ink with a vintage fountain pen, or scribbled hastily on a square notepad with a Sharpie, or even typed into my iPhone with the Momento app or typed into my computer with Ommwriter. None of these should matter. Sometimes the writing will catch me at odd times and at odd places. I must simply write.
"How carefully are we willing to listen? How much control are we willing to surrender for the sake of allowing creativity to move through us rather than out trying to flog it forward for agendas of out own?" - Julia Cameron
I like to imagine myself, beautiful like a dream, sitting by the window and writing. My hair would be in a neat ponytail. My back would be straight. I would be in a pretty vintage dress. My fingers would be ink-stained for effect, folded around a vintage fountain pen. And before me would be pages and pages of beautiful writing, in perfect penmanship. Poems and essays and little stories. With appropriate sketches and drawings in ink and watercolor. So perfect. So admirable.
But in reality, I am in crumpled pajamas or a well-worn shirt and shorts. My hair would be in a messy bun because I just finished keeping the dust in the house at bay. My fingers are wrinkly from washing the dishes. It feels too warm to sit down for any length of time and the clean blank pages of paper only echo a blankness in my mind. My penmanship wavers between okay and confused. My writing churns out snippets of half-hearted poetry, reluctant opinions, and unconvincing stories. My attempts at artful marginalia end up like thoughtless doodles or mediocre sketches.
But none of it should matter, except the simple fact that I write. I make art. Something happens on the page even if it seems not much.
I must keep at it, and then one day it will all come together, fall into place. But I must not think about that yet. I must focus on what is now, what is here. Now I do what I can, write what I can, make art as best as I can. I must not count the days nor measure the hours I have spent nor try to determine if anything has born fruit. Nurture. Cultivate. Savor the surprise when it finally happens.