My life, whilst awesome, has been in overdrive for a number of months now, and even though I’ve been struck repeatedly by great ideas for blog posts I haven’t allocated the time to write any of them down. And after so much time, all the possibilities piled up and up and I had no idea where to start, so I didn’t. Until today.
What’s so special about today? Oh I don’t know. I just decided that I would re-shuffle my priority list and put this on top. Not that my priority list is all that long at the moment, which is a big change from where I’ve been for some time now. Let me explain – no, it’s too much. Let me sum up:
- Since early June I’ve been either in rehearsal or production of a play (for those who don’t remember, I’m a stage manager and a board member for a local theatre company), which means that I was out of the house pretty much every night for months;
- My wedding anniversary and birthday happened;
- Work has been VERY busy with deadlines;
- I took three work-related trips in August/September, in the middle of all of that rehearsing and performing;
- I had the honor of stage managing a dear friend’s wedding;
- Lalalalalaonandonandon . . . .
There’s been no time to quietly reflect on all the thoughts that have been running around in my head, and any downtime I got I spent on the couch watching television in a vegetative state. There really are just so many productive hours in the day, and once the power supply in my little brain got all used up, I was done. I couldn’t make myself wax eloquent after one of those marathon days, so, no writing for me.
I’m surprised how much I’ve missed it. I mean, I’ve been over-feeding my muse lately, right? All this theatre must have filled any possible artistic void in my soul, right? Apparently not. I’ve been itching to sit here and do this, and I’m really happy right now, clacking away.
Don’t misunderstand – I am a theatre person. It isn’t just what I do, it is incorporated into my cells, hammered onto my brain, burned deep within my heart. What a fool I was to think I could live and be happy without it. Idiot. Well, I know better now.
But writing has always been part of me, too. My father just sent me a photo album of pictures of me as a child, and he included a stack of papers that he’s held onto – some of my report cards, some pictures I drew, birthday cards I made. But the things that blew me away were the bits of writing. I was quite the poet from a very early age. There’s also one page from the play I wrote (and directed and starred in) that I made the neighborhood kids perform in our garage. I’m sorry to say that my handwriting hasn’t significantly improved. These things amazed me, not because they were any good (they weren’t), just the fact of them – I did that, I wrote those things. I had the impulse to do that.
I know I’ve said this many times, but I’ve never seen myself as a writer, which seems ridiculous given all the evidence to the contrary. I wrote as a child. My skill at writing has always been a safe haven for me in the business world. I’ve written articles for which I have been paid – the very definition of a professional writer. I’ve been working on a novel. I have a blog.
And this happened – my alma mater printed a blog post I wrote after a Homecoming weekend two years ago in their alumni magazine. So there it is, out there, with my name on it. More evidence that I should be able to call myself a writer.
But can you call yourself a writer if you don’t write? I think at the end of the day that’s my biggest hang up. I feel like a phony, calling myself a writer and not writing (creatively, that is) every day. I can’t say to people “Yes, I’m working on thus-and-so” because most of the time I’m not. I’m too busy doing everything else – or at least I think I’m too busy. Which is the same thing.
I daydream about taking a week off and locking myself in a cabin in the woods to finish my novel. I’d really like to get the damn thing done, to get it out of me so I can move on. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I can’t see it happening, though – always too much to do. I’m self-employed, so there’s no such thing as paid time off. No work, no pay (or at least that’s how it feels). So, again, no writing for me.
I think about the story of Stephen King, how he wrote Carrie on a typewriter he balanced on his lap sitting in the tiny laundry room in his tiny home. That’s commitment. That’s dedication. Compared to that, I’m a total hack, a journeyman, at dabbler at best.
I am convinced that to be successful at anything creative – painting, dancing, acting, writing – you have to do it, every day. I know this to be true. I’ve written about it myself. This is why sometimes very talented people don’t “make it”, and why lesser-talented people sometimes do. It is a basic human struggle between action and inaction, and success cannot be measured in dollars. Although we are promised that if you follow your passion, the money will follow. I’m not sure that’s true – I know several dedicated, talented artists who have completely committed themselves to their artistic pursuits who haven’t achieved this promised success. At least not yet. I admire these people. Their dedication inspires and intimidates me, but their financial struggles give me pause.
So what does all this mean for me? No idea. I will probably continue to want to call myself a writer but believe I’m a phony until I can find a way to write every day, which will always be a challenge. That won’t change.
I also know that writing occupies a separate, important part of myself that I wasn’t aware of until I took this extended break. There’s a void that only writing can fill. I can’t easily ignore it any longer.
All I can say for sure is that today is a new day, and I have a chance to start over. I’ve written a blog post today. That’s a good start.
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photo credit: Remington via photopin (license)
Every Day is Saturday 
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