The title in itself is untrue. Writing is what I do, so to declare myself too busy is a nonsense.
What is becoming noticeable to the extent that even I (with head firmly facing in the opposite direction) can no longer ignore it, is that I am not writing.
At least not for myself.
Attending to work for clients doesn’t count.
(working class roots leave me with a deeply held work ethic, which I don’t want but which I have been unable thus far to shake off)
Reading is not a problem. Indeed, for the time being at least, reading seems to assuage my longing for words but I know it’s a cop out.
I know this busy-ness with other activities is an attempt by a part of me to conceal the facts of what is going on. Self protection or preservation perhaps.
What I don’t understand is why I will not give myself permission to do what I most love doing? Is this a form of self inflicted punishment for some real or perceived wrong doing? Is it driven by fear? Is it normal?
The thoughts have set me on the trail of other writers, lurking around their blogs and books, hoping for a glimpse into their deep, dark secret lives.
Some make no mention of writing being a struggle but others, and oh how joyful is the validation they offer, do.
How can a mind be full of words one moment but entirely empty when presented with a blank screen or sheet of paper?
How can someone who is not known for using one word when she can use ten, be short of something to write?
I’ve followed the advice. I have sat here and ’shown up’ every day. I have tried first thing in the morning and last thing at night - and most times in between.
In the past I have held brutal assessments of those who blog about their crises but now I can appreciate the need to come clean. It’s the proverbial discussion regarding that dead possum which lies under the table.
Perhaps it is my own previously held, less than flattering, judgements about others which are now coming back to haunt me. Oh how superior I felt when the words were flowing. I would have been horrified to face such an accusation at the time, but looking back I can see that was my story.
They say we despise in others that which we most despise in ourselves. (I’m sure I have paraphrased someone’s deeply significant words of wisdom in an inappropriate manner there - my apologies) Has the day finally arrived when the despicability (if I may use the term) of my own nature can no longer be denied?
Taking a long hard look at the way I have been showing up is not nice. It makes me squirm. Holding up that mirror I have to face the fact that I am very good at espousing values which I then don’t live. Paying lip service only leaves one with the morning breath equivalent of being out of integrity. It’s unpleasant and embarrassing and certainly not something I want to inflict on anyone else.
Don’t misunderstand. There has been no intention to deceive. I have believed that over the years I have changed; developed myself, grown in tolerance, appreciated new ways of thinking and being. I have read the books, attended the courses, taken notes and tried to apply what I have learned.
The reality is that whilst I am now left with a cerebral understanding of the things I want to embrace in life - they have not become new ways of being.
Writing is such a revealing past-time. Whether we want to or not writers reveal something of themselves in everything they create through the medium of the written word. Who would want to reveal that they are struggling because they are out of integrity? It’s not a nice admission to make. I can feel another squirm coming on as I type that.
So, if there has been any clarification of thought here, it seems that I can no longer maintain the facade I have been presenting and this is what is causing the block. Either I start walking the talk or I stop talking the talk and walk the old path worn through living old habitual patterns.
I am fearful of the first and sick of the second - but, something has to give.
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