I had very good intentions for this little corner of the interwebs. I still do.
I wanted to write more fiction, more creative pieces. There is something cathartic about personal confession, but I had grown weary of cutting myself open and bleeding on the page. After giving myself a transfusion, I built a new home, and opened the doors to everyone. It was a liberating experience.
It was easier to write when my life was in tatters. The one thing upon which I could always count, in a world where nothing made sense, was my ability to build something out of the fragments of thoughts clouding my brain and the emotions pounding to crescendo in my chest. Build a blood-red boat, set it on the waters and let it drift away.
Then one day, a message came back.
“I hear you,” it said. One voice, to start. Then, more. Thank you for giving me what I needed, when I needed it.
A lifetime ago, I wrote that a Writer is someone who lives to write. Someone who wakes up every morning, as I did, burning with words, desperate to get them out of my fevered brain before they dissipated in a wisp of smoke. Set them down before the fickle Muse leaves, pouting from lack of attention.
Lives that are in tatters tend to be chaotic. They have no rhythm, no goal, no sense of purpose. There is time to dwell on thoughts, especially dark ones. There is time to write these thoughts down, during the hours that are so late that they can also be thought of as early.
Eventually, the jumble of thread starts to untangle. One painful piece at a time, the tapestry of life is re-woven. Connections are re-established, homes are re-built. The big picture, long forgotten in the endless dwelling upon details, becomes clear. Suddenly, the full life is worth living.
The passion and energy spent on the words, always the words, is suddenly spent on the living. The passion is there, but it is spent on other things.
Does it mean that I’m not a Writer?
Or, worse.
Perhaps it means that I’m only capable of writing when my life is a mess.
I desperately want to burn again with the words, to feel that overwhelming rush of thought that must be expressed. There must be a balance between these two things. a safe harbour in which I can find my bearings and finally use this space in the way I originally intended.
The View From the Shoebox 
Dear God, for a second I thought you were shutting down your shoebox on the same day Lexa closed Coulinary Couture, and I about had myself a FIT! Phew. Crisis averted.
I love this post. I love it because I could have written it, because I have felt these same feelings and thought these same thoughts. And what I can tell you, my friend, is this:
Read this article that the brilliant, amazing, wonderful Annie Dillard wrote.(http://www.times.com/books/99/03/28/specials/dillard-drop.html) Pay particular attention to the last two paragraphs.
It is not what we write—it is just that we write, anything, everything, just two thin sentences perhaps, every single day.
I’m not giving up without a fight.
Ditto hannah. Don’t do that without a warning email to your bloggy pals.
Now, I know how you feel and tried to write something similar last week about how I want to get back to the political writing I so love. Maybe we can both find our way in the coming months.
Ooh, yes please. I am also horribly behind in my bloggy reading, but I do miss your political postings.
These thoughts have been in my head, but I have been unable to put them into words. You just did. Which makes you a writer. Thank you for this.
You’re welcome.
Ebb and flow, my dear. I don’t think it always has to be fervent, you know? Let the life have the passion and this can be a place for reflection and creativity for a while. 😉
xoxo
Writing is definitely something that comes and goes. Don’t give up. You are a wonderful and great writer. As I’ve always said, I’d miss your words far too much!