It is Saturday evening, and after flipping through the same small set of channel choices, I finally concluded there is nothing worth my time. I turned it off. The kids went off to play (equally bored with what I attempted to watch) and now the house is quiet. Not too quiet, thankfully. (I actually get that spooked feeling when the house is filled with only myself and the animals), but quiet enough that after I read a blog post, "Zen habits: Finding Your Voice", I felt compelled to take the advice in the column and write.
So here I am, typing, though I am not sure I can call it "writing." Writing at this moment feels as it does after a long mid-afternoon nap: murky, unclear, kind of good, but not great. I could sleep some more, but know I shouldn't. I feel like I've forgotten how to write. Yawn. Where am I? What did I plan to do? I have to write. Eventually I will be awake. I will remember how.
I haven't written or posted anything in a very long while, because I couldn't justify telling readers (if I had any) all about my static life. I realized that I was ashamed of my circumstances and asked myself "Why post the shit?" The writing confirmed my fears and doubts and made them all tangible. So, I made the blog "private" and like TV tonight, shut it down. I told myself I would continue to write, but not post. It was my business – and I was stuck. My writing was stuck.
Recently, I finished one short screenplay -- and it felt good. It is not the most awesome script in the world. But I like it. We are producing it ourselves, hoping to finish it by the end of this summer. J and I collaborated on the script as well as the production. I've kept busy. I have been working on my non-profits' goals, arranged the meetings and classes, worked on websites, tried to keep up with the kids' stuff, the house, the yard, the animals, the constant mess around here. I've added daily reading of Biblical inspirations and other similar points of view, and I discovered that I could change my mind and heart without my circumstances changing first. It has been a good lesson. I've discovered that like a garden, I must cultivate good thoughts just as I did the bad ones. One effort produces happiness and the other produces suicidal tendencies.
So, as I write this now, I guess stopping my blog writing was a necessary thing -- I am no longer on antidepressants and I no longer consume alcohol as I did. It was not writing’s fault, of course. I understand now that without daily creative writing I feel incomplete. Blogging is as honest as I can get with perfect strangers, and so what it is, is what it is. A personal accounting of my life made public. Is my complicated, yet simple life a riveting read? Does it create a profound or enlightening story? Maybe someday. I am working at living instead of wallowing and will document it occasionally. However, I still cannot explain why I should make any of it public by posting it. Humans are bizarre. Dreary though I tend to be, I am one of them.
Speaking of bizarre...
Amy Winehouse died today -- and no, I have nothing to add to that thought but that I liked her music and style. I admired her talent, her voice and her striking, odd beauty. It's a shame she threw it away.
