I'm a Writer

I've been reading a book recently called The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. I could go on all day about what I've learned--or started to begin to learn--from this book. I'm sure I will eventually. There's one thing that he talks about that come s to my mind now though. He's a writer so his struggle is to write. Other artists struggle to paint or make music and so on. I can relate to him well though because I'm a writer. (Wow....I think that's the first time I can remember actually writing that down and really putting it out there. "I'm a writer." I may not have even said it! I'm a writer. I write.)

Every day he gets up and starts again. If he underestimates the power of Resistance, which is his term for all the inertia, resistance, doubt, and sabatoge that goes on within us and limits our progress towards our dreams, then he will find by the end of the day that he's gotten off track and he hasn't practiced his discipline of writing. He's a writer so he must write every day. He must sit down at his desk and write. He must be disciplined and commit time to it.

I must do that too. (A more comfortable chair would help!) I must sit down and write every day. I've thought about it before over the years, always giving myself some reason to not do it, some argument conjured by Resistance. Now I just feel like I don't have any choice. It's write or die. If I don't write I'm finished. If I don't write I'll go throught the rest of my life not being who I am, being a shadow self. After writing just that little piece of microfiction the other day I realized the fact: I'm a repressed artist. Bigtime. My temperment, outlook, and way of perceiving and expressing have always been complementary to creative expression. It's a natural fit for me. It's what I need. It's what I have to give. Writing draws on something in me that longs to grow and develop and shine. Something that I've been keeping shut up in a closet for most of the past decade.

I'm already starting to feel the grief. You can't truly feel the loss of something until you really appreciate it. I could always tell myself before that it wasn't that big of a deal. The world didn't need it. I could be just as happy doing something else. Now I realize that I've been neglecting a vital part of who I am for a really, really long time, like living for years with my right hand tied behind my back! It's almost nauseating to think about, but I'm glad it makes me feel sad because that means I'm really seeing the truth now. I'm no longer in denial about my creative nature.

I'm here now, 32 years old, with my whole life ahead of me. Not too old. I've a lot left to give, hopefully lots of time. And I'm coming to these realizations in an ideal situation. I've got all this time to myself, especially on work days, and a job with not that many hours. There's lots of time to write. Lots of time to start developing the discipline of writing. time to sit down and just write and work on it and work through the Resistance and start growing and gaining confidence as a writer. Time to find my passion, my interests, my Muse. Time to weather the ups and downs of the whole process.

I'm exhausted right now. Lots of thoughts swirling but they'll have to wait. This is life. Sometimes you just have to laugh and shake your head at yourself and the decisions you've made and the excuses you've given yourself for them. This is growing up. Life is good. And it's short. Accomplishing a lot and leaving a legacy is great if you can manage it, but the main thing is the journey, the growing, the discovery, the illumination! What matters most is what carries on into the next world. If I publish one book or ten or none, what matters is the process I go through, the joy I feel, the happiness I bring to others, the vibrancy and spiritual power with which I move through this life. Writing is part of that somehow for me. It must be part of my path through this life, part of my way of taking in and giving out. Maybe drawing and painting too! Music! Just creative expression. I don't know how it's going to all come together. That not knowing was enough to turn me back in the past, but now I can't turn back. There's no going back. I'll just have to keep creating and see where it leads me. I'll keep praying and loving God and seeking His Kingdom, so I'm not worried it's going to lead me astray or anything like that. Creating is goin to lead me into another phase of life, one in which I start to become the man I was created to be. I'm a creator. I'm a Baha'i. I'm a soul. I'm a servant. I'm a counselor? Working on that one. I can finally say with certainty, though, I'm a writer. I write.

On another note, I want to continue putting down firsts here:

-- Today was the first time I had a persimmon since I was in China. It was awesome! They look like little orange tomatoes but their insides are almost like pudding. You can just open up a hole and suck out the goodness! Yummy! They just showed up at the fruit lady's stand so maybe it's the season. It's-a niice!

-- Last night was the first time I made spaghetti in Korea. I added lots of veggies. It was goooood.

-- On Monday I wrote a fictional story for the first time in maybe 10 years! It was a huge breakthrough for me, part of other breakthroughs happening in me right now. I'm breaking into pieces with all these breakthroughs! Happy pieces.

-- That was also my first installment in what will be weekly contributions to a microfiction writing group that I just joined, It's The Water, which is linked to this blog. Stoked about it.

-- Tomorrow will be my first trip to Costco in Korea. I'm looking forward to it.