Let the wind howl. It’s good for our souls.
Let the fury of a Mother Nature never fatigued tear the weak wills of man asunder. I always feel more comfortable when the wind is blowing. I feel more comfortable knowing that things are changing, growing, moulding, progressing, reducing, reforming. I feel more comfortable when I can trust that tomorrow brings something new.
But when I can trust that something will simply blow over, and return to a moral drought, I lose sleep. In stagnant weather, hours past midnight look the same as mid-afternoon tea.
Usually, I lose sleep to imaginary conversations. I lose it to the egoist in me, in that wit of tongue that I’ve always dreamt of having. When I cannot trust in change, laying in bed I imagine change in my mind. Without logic or pre-intention, I am transported to some fake scenario where my well placed quips win the day. Where they illuminate fault in the villain, and where they raise me as a smug hero.
One is never enough. Drought begets drought, and I start on a cycle of my own. Over and over and over, I will have conversations in my head. 11pm. Midnight. 1am. We cannot change the world with thoughts alone. Eventually, I will regain my senses, and demand change. A change in thoughts and a change in focus in hopes of finding a change in sleeplessness. Eventually it works.
But lately I have begun to fear that my waking life suffers similarly. That my writing suffers from the same cyclical drought. The words I type sound the same as before. Slightly different subject matter, very similar themes, no real change. I repeatedly envision a revolution of will that is forthcoming, but never comes. And when the winds howl and clouds threaten, my spirit is rejuvenated. But then the storm blows over.
No rain yet. And my Muse becomes depressed. I become discontented. What is a man who likes to write when he only tells the same story? And it is true, when I bore myself, how can I not worry about boring you? When my fingers stutter and stammer, feeling that they type nothing new, it is logical to assume that it might be read with the same lack of zeal. At least my midnight hero conversations only have one spectator.
But, this is not a negative mourning. It’s a plea for patience.
I do believe it is coming. I do believe that sleepless nights and imaginary conversations will be a thing of the past. I do believe I have something new worth saying. And that’s because I do believe I have things worth doing.
Trouble is, I don’t quite know what they are yet. To reveal myself in naked form, I know not what my future holds. Though the future has been thrust upon me, and all around me the world threatens its indifference and same-same lack of change, there is the faintest feeling of growth that lingers.
I do believe a storm is coming. I don’t think it’s going to be easy on me. I will be chilled to the bone. I think I will have to force myself past sleeplessness. I will have to demand change from myself. It doesn’t disappear naturally. I’m going to have to stop leaning on crutches, and force myself to walk every day. And I am terrified that, along with my weak will, all of me will be blown away. But if I am to be better than who I am, I will have to be better than who I have been.
They say that good writers borrow, and great writers steal. I refuse to let my writing be merely a reflection of this trial and journey. I will steal blatantly from the life I want, from the change I believe is coming, and write that. It must not be just a reflection, but also a declaration. A map as much as a history. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but my writing is very intimate to me. It is very much, to cite the cliché, a part of who I am. And so, I cannot let it drag behind on a leash. I must lead with it.
In addition to random updates and little pieces, I will be starting a longer writing project soon. It will be in blog-type instalments, that hopefully reflects this new intention and growth. It may not be pretty, or my best writing, but the purpose is sound. Perhaps it will serve as a draft for an even larger work in the future. I sincerely hope you’ll join me on the journey.
And, of course, don’t forget my project with Leah MacDermid, which is back on track now that surgery is done. Her instalment goes up Friday the 14th. Shameless plugging is okay if it involves someone else.
http://www.awriterandareader.blogspot.com/
- Z
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