Monday, October 4, 2010
It's been a busy summer, and here we are into fall already and I'm just now finding the time to dive back into writing. Like my last post said, I've missed it. Transferring photos to the appropriate drive to get started today reminded me of the growing backlog of things I intend to write about here, which of course paralyzes me in a non-start position. But last night Chris had a lovely idea, to just start with whichever moment grabs me and take it one at a time, as they come. And whereas the plan was to systematically tackle each item in the order in which it occurred, detailing each day and event like a reporter, I think I like his idea. As they come, in no particular order, but labeled, of course. A somewhat unorganized organically-chosen retelling of the past months. And maybe I'll get really wild and not even draw out every detail; maybe it's time to allow myself to treat this as less of a self-imposed assignment, and more of a lazy story-telling session. It's in the moments that meaning lives, anyhow.
Which brings me back to this room. One floor up from the many distractions of any household, like the laundry piled on the recliner, folded but waving at me to be put away. And the kitchen counters, littered with evidence of last night's dinner, crumbs and dishes waiting to be cleaned. The clean dishes in the dishwasher matching the clean clothes' call to be nestled back in their places. The dog hair on the floor, the bags from this week's purchases, the tables beginning their paper collecting...it's like a visual roar of other things to do before I sit down to write. Isn't this something all writers deal with? Calling responsibilities distractions without guilt when it comes to working? Making writing a priority? It's tough. So up I climb to this sacred space, this quiet space where the breeze and birds outside gently drown out the responsibilities downstairs and invite me to listen. And to write.