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Join me as I grow into the writer I should be before I turn eighty. |
| The first half of my life was spent exploring life, raising a family, and making a living. With the exception that is of a year that produced three books and numerous shorts (of which all were lost in a house fire months later). I've been published, but that is ancient history. This blog will be my journey to "find my literary voice" at the beginning of the second half of my life. If it's anything like the first half, it should be quite a trip. Care to join me? |
| We finally had the perfect snow. It’s moist and sticks together, and there is lots of it. I just painfully sat down from helping the neighborhood kids build their first snowman. I can still hear their delighted shouts as they continue the good fight. There’s talk of forts and sled rides later in the afternoon. The bush in front of my window is loaded with birds.(It could have something to do with the feed I just gave them). My boxer puppy is draped over my knee, her nose occasionally twitching, as she dreams of mischief and chew toys. Everyone important to me is safe, fed, and warm. I am content. I am grateful. I can’t ask for better than that. |
| I am happy beyond words. I am grateful. I am content. I feel like doing a Gene Kelley dance on my snow-covered roof. So many articles, books, and blogs overflow with the fearful reality of Writer’s Block. (Oh my!). I now stand before you, (actually, I am sitting on my couch with my boxer curled next to me), to say that yes I had the dreaded disease, and survived! Writing has always come easy to me. I was perplexed when I heard everyone bellyache about it. You just sit down and write. What can be easier than that? My arrogance carried me through a news-writing job, endless college papers, a house fire that consumed all of my work, a car accident that laid me up for months, and a painful break-up of a writing group I created. I wrote through it all, often using the creating process to help me survive it all. Then one day, I stopped writing. It happened that fast. One day I wrote, the next day I did not. Nor the next or the next. I don’t even want to think about all the months I wasted as my guilt built my self-imposed wall higher and higher. Not to mention all the times I have been unable to read a favorite author, knowing my own beloved characters were mournfully awaiting their own turn in immortalized print. One huge reason I have been flipping out so much is that my daughter just turned 21. This date has always been a milestone for me. I thought by now I would be rich and famous. (Well, at the very least, have a dozen or so published books under my belt). After spending a wonderful 23 years serving my awesome children, this represents my time, when their mummy can walk into the limelight a free agent, without guilt. The closer this monumental time neared, the less I was able to write. IIt was not for want of ideas. I have a couple of dozen fiction stories I have never quite got around to retyping and sending off. I have several novels, both in the works and finished. Every day I see or hear things I just know would make a great article if I would just do my job. Increasingly, I felt a pressure building, and I knew something had to give. I sprained my ankle three weeks ago. For two weeks, I was able to keep busy without actually being creative. Now in my defense, I have been continuing to log onto my writing sites and stay active. I started my blog. I even upgraded my membership, which carried its own weight of purpose. I joined a couple of writing groups and read countless articles. Then it happened, as easily as taking a breath. Something like when you are humming, trying to remember a tune, and then suddenly burst into song. (When everyone stares at you like you are crazy). I had to get down some ideas that refused to budge. I thought I would work on some research I had been planning for a novel, and instead, wrote three chapters! The next day I did another 10 pages. I am writing this after completing a character evaluation that had eluded me for weeks. I want to throw open my door and scream down the street, “I’m bacckkk!” I always knew I would be cured of writer’s block. I love the entire writing process. It is too important to my own mental health. My writing oasis is where I go when I am happy, or sad, or too ticked to get it all out orally. It is where I have wonderful beings born in my mind, waiting impatiently to come out and play and have their own voices heard. Will the dreaded bug ever infect me again? I sure hope not. In the future, I am going to use every skill I possess to make sure it does not. Just in case, does anyone know if companies are marketing a preventive shot for Writer’s Block? I will be the first in line! AmiaEagle Note; I would like to thank Patricia Gilliam and all the authors who wrote articles that inflamed my writing muse again. |
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