I recently got back into journal writing. It used to be something I did daily, but somewhere along the way I got away from it. Picking it back up isn’t what one would call monumental or earth-shattering. It did, however, get me to thinking about my love for writing and where it may have begun.

When I was much younger (if memory serves between 5-7 years old) I was given a book titled The Nothing Book. Inside each page was blank, waiting. And so, I scribbled. Perhaps imagining some great work within weaving its way onto each page. Every time the memory of that blank book comes to mind, I am reminded of possibility. And the potential within myself. 

I do tend to romanticize memory, but for me the receipt of the book was a catalyst for the beginning of my love for the written word, for utilizing my imagination for creating worlds and feeling by simply writing them down. My young mind was given a gift and while I haven’t always taken full advantage, my love for words and using them to create has remained and grown over the years.

Sometimes the voices are quiet. When they are, I allow myself room to breathe. To explore corners I may have left unused or neglected. Sometimes silence says what needs to be said, fills the spaces we're too ready to dismiss or give up on. The undercurrent of a life being lived, but not quite. A place waiting for the breath to be taken, for the extra second we don't believe we have.

Sometimes the voices are quiet, but they are never gone. Sometimes the madness wants us to discover it. To understand its reality within and around us. To explore its edges and beyond to learn how to exist alongside it. 

Sometimes the voices are quiet. When they are, allow them room to breathe. To explore and commune with everything around you. Allow it for yourself as well, you may just discover pieces of yourself long neglected waiting to be picked up again. Gather in the silence, the peace. Embrace the madness.

 

I've been taking some time "away" from several things that have been requiring more space than I have capacity. Recognizing this need isn't always something I see soon enough which tends to lead to a heaviness of mind and body. I needed a reset and room to breathe, to clear my mind and allow my soul to feel the freedom one can only obtain through the practice of letting go. At least for me.

Writing, for me, is more than a hobby, but also not something I want to become more than what it is, which is my tether between reality and fantasy. It is breathing and the pause between breaths. It is madness and the understanding of madness, while giving place for it to exist among the stars and storms which dwell within and around me. Writing is discovery and letting go. It is exploration. It is enigmatic. For me it is everything and the waiting nothing.

I have thought about my writing and the demands I placed arbitrarily upon it and myself and have concluded these demands must go. I don't need them and neither do the words I write. I found myself rushed for no reason, and it was quite consuming. No more of that for me. So, a time out from all else for me as I get back on course with my writing habits as they used to be, because that is all they needed to be and nothing more. No more pressure to put my writing out for consumption, but just place the words I feel and hear down on paper in order for me to wrangle a piece of the chaos around me.

In this I hope to find a balance and a peace. To get back to the appreciation I have always felt for words. A return to the symbiosis between them and me. 

It's been nearly a year to the day since I last put words down in here. Between my last visit and today I published two poetry books. Still surreal to say those words and even more so to hold a book, let alone two, with my name on the cover. Neither book is what anyone would call bestsellers or commercial successes, but those things have never really mattered to me. 

When I was younger, I would dream of having my name on a book I wrote. From dream to reality, I consider that a success. Anything coming after is delicious icing on the cake. Including all those who read my words. It's wild to me that people enjoy what I have written. Beyond dreams really. And very much appreciated.

To anyone who is working on your dream, thinking about your dream, fighting with your dream, etc.- don’t give up, don’t listen to negativity, don’t ever quit fighting. The words you have to share are important. The story you have to tell is needed. The art you are creating is necessary.

Quoting George Bernard Shaw, "Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable." This world would be rather drab without art. And yours will add to the color, the beauty, and the humanity. Keep going.

 Earlier this week I had the privilege of reading some poetry shared with me by another writer. I love reading people's words, the way they form them around an emotion or an experience to tell a story. This fellow writer kept making comments about them not really being a writer, and their words were just...words. Reader, those words had feeling behind them, within them and swirling around them. I told them so and assured them multiple times they were indeed a writer. I encouraged them to keep writing and share when comfortable. 

As with anything in life, writing is a bit of a journey. We come across obstacles, distractions, and change. The struggle is real, and in my belief through the struggle, we find more of ourselves. I know it isn't all struggle (let's be honest with ourselves, writing can be a head banging, shin kicking roller coaster of a time), the sun shines and the obstacles can be overcome. Every single person that writes started somewhere. Not one was perfect right out of the gate (sorry, but it is true), in fact perfection isn't something we should be striving for but for authenticity. Who we are, how we became and are still becoming... our authentic self. When we share the true pieces of ourselves, however that may look, it rings true and is felt. 

So, listen, during the struggles and the sunshine, remember to breathe and not just recognize but appreciate the journey. Believe in yourself, be yourself and above all... Keep writing.

I sit and stare. Blank page with pen in hand, I wait. I imagine time and space. Love and loss. I wonder about life and its many roads. I utilize experience and allow for mistakes. Darkness and light have ample room each, to put forth their perspective. Doubt creeps in nearly all the time, I press on, and rely on hope.

When it comes to writing my only regret would be not listening to the call of the words when they come. The absolute music they make. It isn't without effort, but neither is it forced. And the melody when it arrives is pure magic, to my heart and soul. 

 

I sat with words these past few days. Some stayed. Not all are for me to keep. 

They don't all come the same way or pace. There are times their arrival is fast and demanding, looking for an immediate home, while others show up one word or snippet at a time. I mull, I chew, I ponder, and... I wait. 

I am patiently impatient when it comes to words finding place. I don't seek perfection in the writing, I don't believe in perfection(a topic for another day perhaps). This doesn't mean I am not hard on myself or demand the words to feel right to me. It means once they find their place and the feeling of them being "right" arrives, the task of how to set them free lays heavy on my mind. 

Sharing the words I write has never been a natural thing for me. I have my doubts and fears of not being accepted, heard or even rejected. I have mentioned community and belonging when it comes to words, and let's not forget the persistence of the words need to be free and felt by others. Sharing still isn't natural to me, but in the sharing of what I have been able to write, I've discovered community and found acceptance. My hope is the words find landing places with(and in) others.

Our morrow does indeed come quick, how will you choose to share your words?