Under the best of circumstances, it's tough to find time for many of the things we love to do (there are so many!). Working part-time (I've been retired from my NYS job since December 2002) took a good chink of time out of my writing/art activities, and then there were the usual things to accomplish as a family member, friend and part of the general population. On top of that, I was planning the WomanWords retreat (which came off beautifully) and getting ready to attend a week at the International Women's Writing Guild summer conference this month. All of this lead to NO blogging and consequent guilt for not getting to it.
You'd think my guilt over not writing much (well, not writing enough, in my own estimation) in recent years would've been sufficient fuel for my Inner Critic. All those short stories, poems, essays, plays and who knows what else... lost forever. And then I decided to start a blog. Another thing over which I could ruminate for not having written. At least I was creative in coming up with something else about which to feel guilty. Evil Critic was dancing for joy.
I wanted to be the writer consumed with her work. I wanted a place in the woods on a lovely pond or, better still, oceanside, away from the busyness of the world, soothing surf and hovering gulls the only sounds, out of earshot of televisions and phone calls; where I couldn't see the spider webs growing at the intersections of ceilings and walls, or dust bunnies nesting in corners and on bookcases and end tables (not all because I sometimes actually did write either). Of course, I know these are ideals which become excuses, so I still eked out time to draft enough work to qualify me as a writer (especially if there was a deadline-- I'm good with real deadlines), something I was proclaiming as I stood in front of writers who trusted that I could tell them how they too could tell their stories.
Well, I'm not consumed. I love to write and I think I have something to say, but none of that exactly eats at my innards. I didn't have a horrific childhood. We were lower middle class, tottering sometimes on the edge of upper lower class. I'm a Baby Boomer: my father worked (he was somewhat of a workaholic); my mother didn't, at least not until Dad died when she was 43 years old and went to work for New York State as a file clerk. Dad was the son of Polish immigrants. He fought in the Good War and came home to take a few courses at Albany Business College, quitting to enter the working world. We didn't even have a car in the family until my younger brother George got a license and a Ford Falcon at age 17. Neither George, our "baby" brother Bill or I were abused or neglected. Some might say, why bother to write at all-- isn't this kinda bland stuff?
Ah, but I have stories. My nose sniffs a faint scent of something familiar and a memory emerges. My hands explore a texture and I'm traveling back in time to a place I haven't seen in years-- maybe it doesn't even exist anymore, except in my own mind. I come across a picture in a cookbook of a long-ago favorite, something a grandmother or aunt cooked or baked, and my tongue longs for it, my mouth waters. I have eyes and ears. I have a heart and a brain and a good imagination. All of these add up to a great recipe for pen-to-paper, fingers-to-keyboard. The problem has always been with Me.
After the dinner dishes were done, which was after dinner had been prepared and consumed (this kind of consumption I am very good at)-- which might've been after a few stops on the way home after work, which might've been after leaving the office somewhat later than expected-- I was reluctant to sit down at the computer to write. Oh yeah, when the kids were young, there were other things going on as well. Once I get started, however, if it's a really good start, then I'm driven to keep going (OK, I can get consumed under the right circumstances). I lose track of time. It's 2 or 3 a.m. before I finally stop typing (with reluctance, eyes drooping, chest filled with exhaustion). Try getting up at 5:30 for work after that. I am my father's and mother's daughter and that middle class work ethic sometimes hounds me: get up, get there, do the best you can at least 98% of the time. Your best doesn't happen when you can barely keep your eyes open, at least not in a government office. When that happens, there's another sort of guilt than sets in. Same Critic, shifted into a different gear.
Not that this blog wasn't (and still is) a great idea. I've come to believe that one of my inspirations for writing is an incredible community of writers that surrounds me, both locally and at some distance, the latter a result of attending the IWWG conference since 1995. I love organizing and following through on all the intricacies of making writing and creativity workshops and retreats happen, whether or not I'm the person facilitating the sessions or I've brought another IWWG person to the area for that purpose. Sometimes I think I get more excited researching and pulling together agendas and handouts for sessions than when they happen-- I am imagining how this prompt or that exercise will tweak somebody's Muse into action. Starting a blog to prompt writers (or wannabe writers) back to their pens and computers is a natural extension of all this.
And here I am... back at it. The difference this time is: I quit the part-time job three weeks ago. I'm back from last week's IWWG conference, newly inspired, its Magic (the theme is always "Remember the Magic") having somewhat muted if not silenced the persistent Inner Critic. I am committing myself to at least once-a-week blogging on A Woman and Her Words and, believe it or not, I'm planning to start another blog in the near future related to my other passion, sacred space (stay tuned!).
In the meantime, let me get you writing...
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YOUR TURN
- What do you feel guilty about? Something you've done? Something you haven't done but think you should be doing? Write about it. Ask yourself if the guilt is self-imposed and how. From a childhood religion? From strict parents? From some other source outside family?
- Write about a secret. Any secret. Yours or one someone else once told you. Was it ever revealed? If so, what were the repercussions? Were you the one who told it? Did you feel guilty about it, or was it important that you tell someone (and why was it important)?
- Write a letter to your Inner Critic. Tell him/her off, or try to bribe him/her into toning down the negativity for a while. Give reasons why s/he should do this. You might even give him/her a name (why did you choose this name?).
- Imagine that your Inner Critic sits on your left shoulder and your Writing Angel on your right. If they were arguing over something, what would it be? Write the dialogue and the results.
