A Writer's Torture

Yesterday, I stepped out. It was merely into group of five kindred spirits who share my desire to pursue the craft of writing, but it was certainly something. And it was most definitely a step forward, because for some time, the shroud of fear, intimidation, and confusion has kept me doing absolutely anything but approaching my craft with the passion it so deserves. So, I took it off and put it away. Because, to sit and to share, to dream and to plan gave me a sense of confidence, a self-prescribed list of tasks, and a belief that I must and can do this.

Now today, I'm at Bongo Java. I am only a few steps across the street from the very thing that brought me to this city. This city where creativity, expression, and thought is a way of life and at any given time you find yourself only feet away from persons whose work and whose own craft has been a source of inspiration and cause for admiration. Like, right now. My tiny two-person table which I alone am seated at has me facing a strangely familiar looking guy alone at his own tiny two-person table. It took me a moment, but soon enough I could recall the exact picture I had seen of his before - one used promotionally for his personal blog. Oh, and the few books he's had published that I have read.

Right, right, of course. Give me the gumption, then remind me how far I have to go. It's like standing in front of giants with only a slingshot in your hand and not feeling very much like David at all.

Torture me, why don't You?

But shame on me for feeling instinctively as though I must reach back into the closet and pull out that long-loathed shroud. Finding myself alongside giants in this world of writing shouldn't push me away; it should only call me forward. Why couldn't this chance meeting (because we actually did just meet) be a kind and gentle reminder to do exactly what I can't help but do? To be that person whose insides scream out when a journal, or a Post-it note, or some varying form of paper product is not within arms-reach. To be that person whose swirling mass of thought and emotion finds some balance and rest in the company of silent words, whether produced or simply consumed. To be that person who is absolutely wrecked and yet graciously held together, wanting nothing more than to help others find their way to the same understanding.

All of this may amount to nothing more than doing what I am called to do. But that result in itself should be enough. I often forget the reward for doing so is finding myself being who I was made to be, and vice versa.

To do anything less, now that would be torture.