Honestly, if all the good Lordess gives me in this entire life is loads and loads of time and space, endless blank notebooks and bottles of Mont Blanc ink, a roof over my head, food, great friends, and music, I think I will be able to forgive the decidedly sparse flow of money.
So what if I’m having an endless adolescence. It’s my first adolescence actually awake, and I’m enjoying flopping about freely as I should have done when I was 12 through 20 but didn’t because I was too busy sleepwalking and keeping myself from dissolving from anxiety and grief and confusion and terror. And then came drugs. Which solved everything. For a while.
Anyway, that’s an old story. Today’s story is just fine with me:
I uploaded to Createspace the Soul Messages Workbook: The Complete Course in Developing Your Own Inspiration Oracle Cards. I also purchased a block of 10 ISBNs. How’s that for throwing your hat over the wall?
I began a new story. I won’t call it a novel, but it’s an idea I’ve been playing with, and I started it today, because:
I started a new writing class–as a student. Last night was the first meeting, and of course you have to admit to things like goals, so I have been given the assignment of starting that story. Fiction being my scary new kind of writing. Does anyone else totally idolize things they aspire to but feel incompetent to accomplish? Right now I feel like anyone who’s ever written a fiction anything is a god.
So, I missed my Wednesday posting time, and I’m doing it now, at 11 p.m. Has anyone else noticed that everybody who’s selling something has a deadline of midnight tonight, September 30? I’m trying to decide whether to subscribe to an online coaching/biz community for witchy woo-woos like me.
So here’s the thing: The whole time I was working on the files for the Workbook, buying the ISBNs, perfecting the cover, converting to pdf, proofreading, learning Pages 5 on my Mac, etc., etc., etc., there was this voice in my heading saying I’m wasting my day just sitting on my butt. It wasn’t until I pulled out the blank page and started writing that story that that voice quieted. That voice is like error messages on the computer. You can’t always take them literally. They just mean something’s wrong. It’s still up to you to find out what it is.
Outside the rain came down in wild torrents, blown by the wind against the windows. Water came coursing down the dirt road that leads to the lake. My partner went out, as she does in every heavy rain, to scratch little pathways into the road for the water to drain into the woods instead of into the lake, where it would deposit residue from our cars. The cry of the loon makes us both look up, then at each other. That one thing is enough reason to go out in the rain and divert pollutants from the lake.
“Fiction is where you get to talk about what you want to talk about,” asserted my teacher last evening. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked me. I mumbled something about this place, the lake, my partner’s ancestors, the deep history here.
Is it possible I could let myself go into a story and a life that have exactly everything that’s right, in them already?
Tell me about your scary edges, and what you are avoiding. (Ooh, that reminds me of a great writing prompt. I think I’ll update the writing prompts page. Check it out.)
And one more thing: I just got up to bring my partner a towel, and for some reason remembered Mrs. Thomas, my 6th grade teacher. I’ve written about her back in the 30 Days of Joy days. But this is what I remembered tonight: She believed in me. Remember, somebody believed in you, probably still does.
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by Phyllis Capanna © 2015 joyreport
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