When I thought about blogging again, I immediately asked myself: “Will anybody care?”
It’s always interesting when the first question we ask ourselves regarding important decisions is if other people will accept, revere, question, respond to, or love them. Why isn’t anything done for the self anymore?
When I was writing every day, I was infinitely happier. Working with words, manipulating sentences, creating new ideas and realms of possibility: that is what truly makes me feel alive. But life gets in the way. Working full time, teaching the craft of writing day in and day out, is exhausting. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. Actually, love is a weak word to describe the sensation I get when I know that I’ve helped a student improve their writing. I really am lucky to be able to preach what I practice…
Now it’s time to practice what I preach.
Carving time out for myself is crucial. I spend so much of my week bouncing back and forth between the colleges where I teach, and the only time I have to write is time I’d rather spend sleeping. Which I do. A lot.
I often spend quiet moments in the car between classes planning out scenes and creating dialogue for new characters. I get my best thinking done during those 30 minute commutes. Even then, they come and go too quickly.
One aspect of being a creator, which is what I call myself (what, writers are known to have God complexes, right? As Beyonce recently sang: bow down, bitches), that I’ve come to accept is that inspiration is fleeting. It comes and goes on its own whim. It doesn’t wait around for YOU to decide that you’re ready. It’s the elusive friend you can never get a hold of when it’s important, the lover who only calls you when they want a booty call, your first crush that you can’t get out of your head, even though you know they’ll never reciprocate the feeling; it’s impossibly unfair. And even when it does come, it’s too fickle to stay long enough to satisfy any sort of craving or fill any void.
That’s the beauty of writing.
The best ideas spring from crowded minds. At least that’s the case with me. My best writing comes when I don’t have time to write. My best sentences come to me when I’m in the middle of doing 1,929,297,420,768,591 things at the same time. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The most beautiful parts of life are born from chaos. And from that chaos, we’re able to make sense of the world.
I’m just happy to be writing again. I’m ecstatic to be putting the finishing touches on the novel I’ve been writing for the last six years. And whether or not anybody cares about what I have to say, I’m going to write it anyway…for those afraid to speak up, for those who thrive off of creativity and live for those fleeting moments of inspiration, and for me…isn’t that the whole point?