It seems to me that those with an artistic bent tend to dwell within themselves much of the time. Sometimes painters paint what is before them, but very often they wash the canvas with colorful memories. Musicians in training are directed to focus on past emotions so as to imbue their notes with meaning and feeling.
Writing, though, may be the most selfish art. Personally, I find it difficult to write amid activity. It is, in fact, the one time when music can distract rather than accompany. For months in the not too distant past, I found myself constantly scribbling words on pieces of paper that rode in my pockets until I made my way back to my desk, and my computer. Everything that happened around me was fodder. A sentence, spoken by a co-worker, could set off a series of ideas that zinged across my mind until I made a conscious effort to wrangle them and discern if the group could become one thing. The top of my desk often looked as though someone had emptied a wastepaper basket upon it.
Today, my desktop is decorated by one IPOD and two sets of ear buds, a tiny flash drive, my watch, and all the obligatory stuff that usually lives atop a desk. There is but one scrap of paper amid the debris; a business card, with the names of two musicians and one song title I was determined to remember.
At first, I attributed my lack of desire to write to the fact that my PC went on the fritz. Two weeks into that odyssey, I bemoaned the fact to a friend who reminded me that people have been using paper and pen to write for centuries. I knew that. I had even considered it, for a few seconds. I used to write on legal pads. And, I have been known to compose an entire poem while sitting in rush hour traffic, on a page in a spiral notebook I carried everywhere for just such a purpose. Somehow, the thought of scrawling my thoughts on paper just didn’t appeal to me, despite the mocking that went on inside my head. “If you were any kind of writer…”
Ironically, my computer required a new mother board. Two weeks and six hundred dollars later, Roger reconnected me with my blog. Since that time, I have only posted twice.
I’ve thought about writing. I’ve chastised myself for my lack of discipline. I’ve conjured words of positivity in an effort to bolster the thesaurus inside my head. I’ve sat in a focused posture and attempted to will ideas into my brain, and failing that, shuffled my mental “tickler” file to no avail.
Today, as I hung laundry out to dry, I reminded myself to write. I plucked weeds from my garden and twisted the cultivating tool back and forth while wondering if I might have tucked a scribbled idea into the side pocket of my bag. As I returned from the patio where I had sipped a glass of lemonade after mowing the lawn, a thought whispered to me, “You’re not writing because you’re not living inside your head.”
Two weeks of living without a PC had freed me for more tactile pursuits, and in that short amount of time, I switched gears. The realization, however, only begs more questions. Isn’t this a good thing? Aren’t your relationships benefiting? Aren’t you getting more done? You’re always saying you want to be more active. Aren’t you more active? Do you really want to see, again, the looks of disappointment when you say “I’m sorry, honey, I can’t. I’m writing.”?
It is a good thing. My relationships have benefited, and I have accomplished much, including rediscovering a more active lifestyle. And still, I will see just the hint of a pout as I close the door to my office.
A friend shared a photograph that spoke to me, and I promised him a story…
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 