Friday, December 30, 2005
Sunny and mild
Today is the Dark Moon, time to cut away all that is not needed. Tomorrow, on the final day of the year, is a New Moon.
I like the idea of January 1 being on the second day of a new moon – even more of a reason for a fresh start.
I was surprised by how uncomfortable I felt posting the GDRs for 2006; I felt very exposed. Part of that is because The Situation will affect so much of what happens next year – and, at this time, I am unable to discuss it thoroughly on the blog.
Also, over the course of this blog, I’ve often been criticized for showing the frustrations of the writing process and how the writing process entwines with the rest of my life. I’m told that I should only write the good things and stop making it seem like work. Hate to break it to you, but writing is work. It’s more than work, too – a calling, a vocation, a passion, a commitment. But there’s no denying that, even on the good days when it flows well, it is still work.
And the writing does affect and entwine with the rest of my life. It is not separate. I am not a hobbyist. I am not a wanna-be writer. I am a writer. Writing consumes me. In order to be a writer, I have to make decisions in other areas of my life that other women would not make. Part of that is demanding partnership in my relationship – my work is just as important as my SO’s. I didn’t make the deal to be the one who keeps the house while the partner goes out into the world. I have too damned much to do out there myself. In previous relationships, I always used to shake my head at the changes the guy expected once we became a couple. All those things that attracted him initially—the independence, the fact that I lead my own life and have my own interests and a deep commitment to my writing and to the theatre – where things he expected me to change once there was a relationship in place. I was supposed to put my work and interests aside and make his the priority. I could do my work, if and when there was time.
Writing affects every part of my life. I am never not a writer. The wonderful part of being a writer is that everything you see, feel, smell, touch, hear or experience in any way is material. Somehow, somewhere, it’s useful. Nothing is ever wasted.
I don’t want writing to be separate. Breathing isn’t separate and writing is like breathing to me, so why would I pretend otherwise? I love the fantasy of having a paneled, English-style library to which I can retreat to turn out brilliant prose. But the reality is that I write whenever and wherever I can, to get the words on paper. And I work them and rework them until they’re telling the best story possible (or until the deadline hits, which hopefully are not mutually exclusive).
I was not put on earth to be a help meet (or help mate, depending on the source). I was not put on earth to please other people. I was put here to participate in this bizarre roller coaster called life, to observe and communicate the human condition as best I can, and maybe, just maybe, help someone see the world in a slightly different way, and to think a bit differently in the future. Or, at least, to take the time to think, period.
This blog, which is a different type of writing, being far more personal, is not meant to be the experience of writing; it is merely my experience of writing. It is a single journey which maybe, just maybe, will help another writer struggling to make sense of the world, or maybe another reader, wondering what it is like to put together the puzzle that ultimately becomes a story that every writer hopes will touch at least one reader in an ultimately positive way.
Blessings for the New Year.
I will be back with the blog in early January. I’m seeing in the New Year with meditation.
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