To write.

Perhaps it’s my age, or the recent shattering of some parts of my life, but in the last year I’ve felt some urgency around feeling that I am not a “real” writer. By which I mean I’m horribly undisciplined – only writing when I feel like it, barely finishing thoughts before moving onto the next, and having nothing in print to show for it anyway. I chide myself that at 34 I should have done something more with it by now. I struggle to impose schedules on myself, drafting outlines for books and articles, and then somehow fail to meet even minimum expectations. It’s a battle waged in the deepest nooks of my childhood dreams (to be a poet), between the desire to express and the fear of having nothing to say. (And yes, those of you who know me can have a good chuckle at that. When have I ever had nothing to say?)

But I get these inklings on occasion – reminders that the gift is there – trapped in my heart and fingertips – and feel the “writer” scrabbling inside me. That would be someone who writes. Constrained without pen and paper (or keyboard and memory chips), and unable to envision giving up the dreams that defined my adolescent angst. Taking it up almost every day instead of abandoning it, even as I struggle to define what it is that would make me “real” as opposed to the very fact of doing it. Just like this.

A poem, a post, a song, an essay. This week I have worked through each of these forms, feeling how each of them changes me. The essay so much harder than the poem – a hammering out rather than an emergence of. The essay with the possibility of becoming a book, the poem finished as soon as I pull it from around me and going no further. The essay, logic. The poem, mystic. Similar only in that neither have come from imposed schedules or self-resentment. Instead from allowing myself space and silence.

And therein lies the answer along with the difficulty. I have ceased to do alone well, associating it too closely with depression. Sitting still feels like a laziness to which I have an inborn opposition. It’s almost moral, this distaste I have for doing “nothing”, and yet it’s what I need. And more, I need outside experiences that are not about work. When the space is there, and the experiences that drive my intellect to different places, then the writing comes all on its own. Not always easily, but without browbeating. I expect that besides writing, this is just a good formula for living (space, silence and fresh experience along with the stability of work).

My friends have been more than supportive of my writing – they are all pretty damned literary people and I do not take this as flattery (which I am grateful for). One night last month I was fretting online with a friend about whether or not I could or should attempt a book project…. (oh, my navel-gazing is endless)…. he disappeared from the chat screen and showed up at my door 10 minutes later to tell me in all earnestness that I *should*, before giving me a hug and taking his leave. (And now, as I recollect this, I see him framed in my doorway on the backporch giving me this encouragement with his open heart and face. Warm summer evening with the softness of that moment bringing connection. Shared. Grateful.)

Now, I just have to figure out how to support these needs, while still living out the commitments I have taken on for the next two years (work & union). I sense after this upcoming intensity there is a drastic change coming for me. I know at least half of what that involves. We’ll see how the rest pans out.