Magic of Writing
When I think of being a writer, I think of dark mahogany desks that my perfectly painted toes are propped up on while I type away like something is haunting me between the thin silk of a wine red robe. I think of books on shelves all around me that the light from long windows touch, maybe even a few of my own sprinkled in there like they always have been in my mind, as if they are playing a good game of hide n seek all too well.
I think of magic.
And that is what writing can be on the good days. But I'll let you in on a little secret, it is not always. On the other days, that magic may have just lept out those bright long windows to save itself from my over processing brain when it sees that no, I don't have a fancy silk robe. Just a grey cotton one. My toes don't look like they haven't been painted since the Jurassic era, purple chipped paint a sad excuse of- no I can't even try to pass that off as a colorful french tip. They are just there honestly so that they don't look as awful in a pair of flip flops on the way to the communal dorm bathroom in the middle of the night.
If only writing was magical and my fingers typed away as if I actually knew what I am doing, because honestly, I don't. Not at all. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking that of course I do, but that is one big lie that usually follows up with days like the ones I have been experiencing lately with stress tears from life and the question that comes up over and over and over again unlike a cleansing ritual, for I have yet to be rid of the nagging of...
Am I met to be a writer?
I am going to try to keep this more on writing and a bit of reflection I believe, but who knows since many a blog post turns into a mantra of trying to keep my head above the deep waters of self doubt. I have, after all, been working on a novel for over two years now. Quite a long time for so many changes to keep taking place, to keep transitioning over and over exactly where the right spot is and where maybe, just maybe, magic will actually happen. It is like that game at the arcade down at the boardwalk I am actually decent at. Round and round the little light goes, and BAM. My hand whacks down on the button for the little light to hopefully land in front of me. While I am writing lately, I feel like it has skittered a little too far, my hands were not fast enough perhaps. And it is blinking where I missed it. Mocking me and my pockets now empty of quarters.
Today is technically day nine of NaNoWriMo and I have not written anything decent, anything true since day three I believe though a string of scattered words. Frightening. Questioning. To wonder if this is what I am meant to do. But, what if I walk away? Walk away to eventually fear that this, this moment when I think to do so is it, and I will pass it by and succeed in the end in something that doesn't matter.
So perhaps, I will be a writer.
Perhaps, I am a writer.
Perhaps, recently I really like using the word, perhaps.
To ease any worries, like my own, I am not going to walk away. I didn't before and I shall not now. For stars above! I took a run yesterday to figure all this out. A run! Like actual physical activity that was not me contorting myself on a yoga mat with some Yoga With Adriene. It was a moment of hoping my ear buds wouldn't fall out while now thinking I should have been playing the tune of
"what would you dooo...to be a writer. do do do"
Apparently go for a run. Apparently suffer a little. Because that is when the magic happens eventually. When I break from the storm and realize I need to finish this stupid draft. Then change change change with a magic snap of my finger tips. That is when the magic happens of writing. I just need to dig for it like the most precious of stones until I find it in its glory instead of bursts. Need to slam my hand down on the arcade game button and cheer when a stream of words instead of tickets greet me.