The Journey

As a writer, when I’ve determined that it’s time to sit down and write, it is often immediately followed by a pressing need to do something else. Something obscure. Something that I’ve been meaning to do or research or look at but was too busy doing actually necessary things to take the time for. But once it’s time to sit down and write, those other ideas/tasks/interests are suddenly critical.

Anything, everything but sit down and actually write. To face the blank page: this is the struggle of the common writer. Paulo Coehlo perfectly describes this dance of aversion and avoidance in his book The Zahir; I find myself guilty as charged today.

It has been months since I’ve written for an audience. I write all the time, for myself, for posterity, for documentation, for processing my own day to day difficulties, victories and ponderances. That counts too, but as a writer who has so much yet to say and to share, it is not enough.

I set a new writing goal for the month of May. As a recovering overachiever, I find that moderate goal setting helps me to create a reality out of my dreams without pushing me to the brink of burnout. Without the goal, I may or may not do anything at all, pending my daily whims. With a realistic goal, I feel motivated to check that box and set myself up for not only positive productivity, but a little personal victory in the process. Win, win.

Because of this new goal, I find myself at one of my favorite locally-owned coffee shops with my laptop in front of me on my day off, having already consumed my bourbon caramel latte and ham & cheese croissant, in an effort to coerce, corral, compel, or coax myself into writing, to make the process as attractive as possible, to bribe myself into the act. The quote, “I hate to write, but love having written” deeply resonates with me. As always, getting started (again) is the greatest hurdle I face.

Despite my intentions, and having already enjoyed my treats, I spent the first hour researching how to most easily convert my blog into a website which led me down a rabbit hole of plugins, SEO optimization and indecipherable jargon about hosting sites and site security, leading to even greater confusion and overwhelm than before I started, until I finally abandoned that research once again. Then I indulged the sudden, pressing need to create and post an Instagram story of the beautiful latte art atop my bourbon caramel latte – a diversion that rarely peaks my interest. Then I took a moment to reply to some texts that came in earlier during my misguided website research pursuit, until finally, 90 minutes after settling into my spot at the corner of the coffee shop, I finally opened my blog to begin drafting a post. But then…a previous draft caught my eye and I couldn’t resist the urge to open and reread that one–which, to be fair, has some real potential as a future post–and make a few edits before finally putting my foot down with myself.

And now here I sit, 5 paragraphs into a newly drafted post, wondering what the purpose and meaning of it will be. Only occasionally do I sit down to write with a clear vision of what the writing’s purpose or meaning will convey. Usually I just start to write and the meaning reveals itself to me along the way. That unveiling is part of what makes the process so tantalizing and appealing. It only takes a moment of reflection for me to understand this one…

It is the same process with my life, I find. It has unfolded like a winding river, filled with unexpected twists and turns, unplanned diversions, tumultuous points of white water rapids sending me bouncing over painfully rocky beds, precipitous drops sending me spiraling over waterfalls of the unknown, and scraggly branches and brushes that I find myself entangled in, among the river’s edge, fighting to break myself free to find the peaceful flow of mid-river once again. All the while the river is pulling me toward an inevitable outcome, a purpose that each seemingly unfortunate, profoundly challenging, and often uncomfortable experience is preparing me for.

At the beginning of this year, I had certain plans and ideas about pursuits I intended to undertake, goals to further my journey as a writer and actively propel me toward the life of my dreams. My vision for that life is clear–my motivation, stronger than ever. I am already living a version of it that I enjoy immensely in the present, and also, there is so much more to come. There I was, poised to jump back into the active work of building, and then here comes the unknown, the unexpected and the unplanned, once again. I found myself hurtled sideways into uncharted waters, struggling to keep my head above the surface, entangled (again) among the snares along the river’s edge.

But I have to ask myself…were these first 90 minutes of distraction, diversion and rerouted intentions sitting in the coffee shop just procrastination? Or are they part of the process? The preparation? The period in which the creative process builds, in the background, until it can’t be denied any longer, until it finally bursts forth into yammered sentences pounded out into the keyboard revealing the hidden meaning and poignant lessons that were always being acquired along the way? The gestation period that precedes any birth, from the smallest to the most spectacular?

It occurs to me now that my journey as a writer is synonymous with my journey through life, an ongoing process of uncovering and unraveling which, at the same time, is building a life worth living, brick upon brick. Exposing the lies of the indoctrination in which I was raised, unravelling the knots of fear, hate and limitation that were deeply imbedded in my sub-and-un-conscious mind, unlearning the patterns of attachment and abuse that held me captive for forty years — all this undoing is, in fact, a process of building, of creating, of transmuting darkness into light.

My journey as a writer is the journey of discovering myself, of unlocking my voice, of learning to believe in myself, in discovering I have inherent value, something to say which is worth hearing. After a lifetime of being silenced, biting my tongue, questioning and doubting myself, and holding back, the river beckons me forward and challenges me to speak, to speak up, to speak out, to believe and invest in my own voice. After all, what good is a gift that goes unopened or a song that goes unsung?

What gift are you holding back from the world? What unsung song lives within you yet, that only you can sing? Maybe you’re already singing it. Or maybe, like me, you’re still learning the words.