goal: inspiration space.

• Listening to this album.
• Eating this food.
• And writing in this inspiration space:

small life.

It’s lovely when the itch to write comes back to me. I just need to dust it off and shake it out and it finally takes me away. It’s worth reminding oneself that inspiration can only carry you off if you show up.

I have been successful at freewriting all days but one this week. Last night, I did absolutely everything else on my to do list first. I even added more things to my to do list, and did those as well. It was approaching 10:30pm and I was thinking about what book I wanted to read and how cozy my bed was looking and by some other power, I managed to get my notebook in my hand, set a timer for 10 minutes, and sit myself on the couch to write. I began by writing I don’t want to write but still...I’m showing up. My calendar on the wall is looking very happy with a few big black Xs on it.

Many years ago, a friend introduced me to Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow and my life was changed. It opened my eyes to myself and to human truths I had found no words for, which I believe to be the greatest feats of good art. I will never, never forget those moments, curled up in the Wellfleet winter, reading that book for the first time.

Today I uncovered this wonderful piece about Mr. Berry’s annual birding walk (I was pointed there by this excellent blog). The author, Erik Reece, kindly offered these words:

In tumultuous and uncertain times, it is worth being reminded that these fine things—beauty, faith, gratitude—still lurk eternally beneath history’s dark veneer, and that an artist working alone in a room beside a river may catch a glimpse of them and render them into a lyric poem, a short story, or an essay. 

brooding.

I had a professor in college who was a little wacky. She was the march-to-your-own-drummer sort of English teacher that no one openly admitted to liking. She asked for brazenness and silly self-expression that made me, at least on the face of it, hate her classes. But there was always that little high I got from whatever ridiculous thing she made us write or read or do. And not shockingly, there are things she taught me that sort of bubble up in my consciousness when I least expect it.

So.

I wrote something for one of her classes, I don’t remember what anymore, and she gave me one line of feedback on it. Stop writing so passively. She was absolutely right and still is.

This roared up in my brain last night after Jacob described my writing voice as detached and passive. It wasn’t a criticism, and sometimes passive and detached is exactly how I mean to write. But I really do write passively....all the time. Whether I mean to or not.

In one sense it’s nothing more than a grammatical choice. But in another, it is a subtle way to say things with less conviction, sharpness, passion and ownership. I literally tend toward writing in the passive rather than active voice. I use turns of phrase like seems and might be and appears and so on. It’s less vulnerable and frankly easier to write with less authenticity and self.

I’ve been reading Susan Cain’s book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, and it really has gotten my wheels spinning. It’s ushered in the epiphany that things I once considered my flaws might be the very opposite. She describes the powerful, heart-thumping empathy I have felt my entire life. She describes the intense dreams and consuming emotions, both good and bad, that might overtake a highly sensitive and introverted person. She mentions such people tend to avoid violent movies - which I absolutely do. She even describes the case of a child who would cry when other children got into trouble in class. Me, I blush when I can tell other people are feeling embarrassed.

success.

I can’t seem to settle on anything. When I write little bits, and delete, and write, and delete, and think, and think, etc. I tend to get lost at sea. The task (writing) seems to grow larger and larger and the importance more and more grave. Suddenly I find myself here, making lists about what kind of blog this is and imagining how I might totally change or totally scrap the whole thing. At least I usually recognize and reign in my crazylady brain when it comes around. Well, I try to.

I desperately want to classify the whole thing and give it some order. Much in the same way that I want to line up the deodorant and hand lotion and mouthwash into a neat row on the shelf. It’s a ridiculous thing. The world moves along just fine if my toiletries are in disorder and I can write big and unwieldy even without a schedule or tidy purpose.

I re-read the first post I wrote here to remind myself: the point is to write. It doesn’t have to be all bloggy and beautiful and attract one million readers. I don’t need to write features on a particular schedule about particular things. Some people do, but right now, I do not. The point for me is to write. I write about things I notice, things I think about, things I read or eat or listen to. That’s all.

For just over a month, I have been biking to work. It’s been a wild adventure. I’ve never biked so much in my life. In the deep dead of winter, it’s cold and it seems many, many cars want to run me over.

It was cold this morning - not too cold, but cold enough that my eyes stung and I shivered the first few blocks. I’ve been running a lot lately and my knee has been achy the past few days. So somewhere around 11th and Mass Ave, I decided to just be aware. Aware of the cold and aware of the pain. That was it.

this new year.

One of the things I have come to love about this blog is the way that I can look back over the months and see slices of myself. I can remember whatever quirky thought or emotion had me so captivated that I wrote it down. The more freely and openly I write here, the more impulsive my fingers fly, the more honestly I am able to see myself.

I don’t write because I am terribly terribly afraid of being bad at it. I don’t write because I have other things to do that are not as hard. I don’t write because I know I should. I don’t write because I am undisciplined. 

I’ve made some resolutions for this new year. I wrote them all out in a hippy-dippy mindmap. But it actually worked for me. I have felt, especially lately, overwhelmed with things I want to do and what seems like not enough time to do them. Drawing it all out onto one page helped me to remember my priorities and remember how to make time for them.

Today is January 4. We are four days into a new year. This is the year I will run a half-marathon and pay off my car loan and who-knows-what-else. Really, who knows what else?

I notice, the more I read what I write, the stuffiness in my voice. Or seriousness? Or ennui? Whatever it is, it isn’t quite accurate. I am a private person and I tend to write carefully in a way that is acceptable for strangers to read, in the way I might present myself, in life, to a stranger. Generally the stranger will find me quiet and shy and they won’t really be sure if I quite like them. The people who know me well know my ridiculousness. I suspect that the more I write, the more I work my way up to the reveal. The moment I can write just as I am.