My period of reflection on the shores of the Sea of Despair left me at peace with myself and my writing. It resulted in a massive clean out of my toolbox, where I rediscovered gems which were long ago started then discarded, found a truckload of trash and organised finished works into a semblance of order. At the end of this process I settled down to wallow in the cocoon of self-satisfaction but something was niggling at me, eating away at my consciousness, knocking on the door of my mind demanding entry.
Eventually I roused myself from my smugness and laboriously made my way to the door, begrudgingly, I threw it open ready to give the intruder the full force of my self-satisfaction and banish them from the hallways of mind. The brightness of the light that met me and the force of its entry threw me backwards, stumbling and tripping on the detritus that are discarded memories. I lay dazed, enveloped by the light, its’ luminescence seeping into my skin and hitching a ride on the blood cells coursing through my veins and arteries, giving it swift and direct access to my heart.
It was over in seconds that felt like eons, I had opened the door to the magical fairy dust of Self Enlightenment.
As the door closed behind an empty space, for no one or thing had left, I allowed the realisation of Self Enlightenment to flood through me.
Firstly, I was thirsty for the nectar of creativity, I had not written anything new since September 25th and that piece gave me no sense of “the best thing”. The Christmas story I penned in September was nothing more than a self-serving example of writing for therapy. Through the homely, comfy tale of grandparents preparing for Christmas with their rarely seen grandchildren I had expunged my own despair at not being able to be with my son’s family for the second Christmas in a row. It did its job and I wrote through my disappointment and am now looking forward to a very different Christmas with two good friends from England. No santa suits but a great time will be had.
The issue is, concentrating solely on one work IE my novel is not enough. My time may be more constrained than most I meet along the Publisher’s Pathway but that time needs to be used across a range of projects. That is the way of my soul. This can be construed as distraction but it is my life blood.
Having evaluated and taken stock of my work to date the fairy dust of Self enlightenment has shown me that my womag days are over, there are no regrets and I will continue to submit my current pieces but I will not write any more. This realisation leaves me wanting to scream at the top of my voice to the organiser’s of the comprehensive writing course that is my guide-book:
“It’s OK I don’t want my money back just give me the help and guidance.”*
I feel purged, clean and ready for the next challenge, I am at one with my realisation that my writing habits and ways are different, I may not write words on paper every day but I think and live in stories that will be written every single day.
My works may be interminably slow but, who knows, maybe I am that tortoise racing the hare.
* If Jim T still follows my efforts take heed of this insight and frustration