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.

Sufficing The Inner Writer

Lord, it feels like I've inhabited as many homes on the internet as I have in real life. (Wait, internet isn't real life?) I changed my personal blogging space, to our space (though my husband never uses it), because we're newlyweds now and everyone is dying to know the answer to that age-old question only asked of newlyweds, though no one ever knows quite how to answer. "So, how's married life?" Well, I'll tell you there. Or rather, I'll tell you as much as what exists on the surface and maybe a little bit deeper. I've only dug so far, mostly because that type of blogging lends itself to updates on goings-on and maybe some thoughtful insight here and there. And I say here and there, because things have been a little spotty lately.

I've missed writing.

I've missed thinking about writing.

I've missed using a blog as a labratory for writing ideas.

So this is my attempt to bring it back and wipe away the forlorn look on my inner writer's face as she sulks at her tiny desk in the corner of my mind. Crumpled piles of paper litter the floor beside her tapping feet which she uses to remind me that she's still alive and waiting for that freedom, or at least the sense of freedom to just go with it.

I hope to patch things up, soon, starting with a nice strong homemade latte with a thick layer of foam, just the way she likes it. Because does not coffee satisfy the inner writer in us all?