(Oh! Where it's actually me waking up on a Monday!)
I've been meaning to do a status post for a while, seeing as the blog just started up again without notice and is now full of books, life, and wonder. It's been an interesting two years since I stopped blogging. I've found blogging is an extension of my writing, and when I do not write, I do not blog.
The thought of writing, however, never escaped me. Not a single day went by I didn't think about writing. Or why I wasn't writing. Not a single day I didn't torture myself with guilt for not. I understand two things now: 1) I should've never stopped writing. 2) Everything happens for a reason.
If you've been a member of my blog for any length of time, you'll have known that my life is just like everyone else's--highs and lows. The two years I've been absent here I've been working, taking care of an ill family member, and trying to revive a dying art.
Well, my own dying art.
A lot of it was distraction from writing. Some of it was distraction from life. All of it was exactly what I needed at the time.
I cannot begin to say how many pieces of advice I've read about writing. Thousands of pieces of advice, all different, all extremely personal to the experience of the person sharing it. I've come to the conclusion that one (me) must write to write a book, and one (me) must live to fill that book with the emotional experience that connecting with both the characters AND the readers requires. That isn't to say a book cannot be written without having lived a full, long life, or that the book is any less wonderful than any other book. I'm saying I am no genius, I am not a great writer--almost, maybe, possibly an okay one--so my books require me to pull an exhausting amount from my life experiences.
When my father died yellow and unexpected, I spent a month trying to understand what my place was anywhere. Writing was the only conclusion. I dove into writing my book (wow, what an amazing funeral scene at the beginning of the book!) and didn't stop until it was 'finished.'
Finished, in this instance, means 'when I could no longer write the story because I fucked it up so badly the forward movement hit reverse before I knew it.'
What happened, after that?
Well. Everything you didn't see here because I stopped writing.
I made a lot of earnest attempts at writing. "Maybe if I try a new, fun idea that isn't this stupid book."
A lot of grudging attempts at editing. "But I can't let go of this book yet, so I'll try and rewrite it."
Mostly, I singularly dreamed about writing.
When I started blogging again, I started writing again. Or when I started writing again, I started blogging again. I'm not sure which came first--which FEELING came first--the want to write or the want to blog. In any case, here I am. Writing and blogging again. The blog posts will continue to be what you see now with a scattering of wordy posts like these. Writing posts won't be as often, though, because I'm monitoring my personal word reserve very carefully.
There's something exhausting and amazing about creating something and hammering out a world and people and things formed from your mind. It will never get easier, but if one continues on--pressing forward, even if it isn't writing but the THOUGHT of creating--the writing will happen and the memory of failing to write will be replaced by something shaped like a story.