I started a new book project last night. It’s been simmering for awhile, and finally began to birth itself keeping me up until the wee hours of the morning. I like to think that my writing looks like this as I translate thought onto the page:
But more often than not, it’s closer to this:
No judgement. The work of my creative mind, right?
I’ve started big writing projects before, but this one feels different. I’m writing it for myself. It’s quickly becoming a collection of all the insight, support and encouragement I have soaked up over the last few years, regurgitated through me. And that’s what’s so interesting, because I cannot offer anything new. Only a rearranged presentation of wisdom that is ageless.
I often wonder what other writers think about their thinking as they write. No matter the genre, there is a major side-step when in the act of creative writing. Elizabeth Gilbert had a beautiful way of describing it in her Ted Talk. Yet it still leaves a lot unsaid. What is that mystery dance with the source of inspiration? Why do I also dread the dance with my own ego and the repetitive questioning of why I am writing at all. I find it easier to write if I imagine no one will ever see it. But this blog is teaching me that I can still speak my truth, regardless of the minds that consume my thoughts.
This all boils down to writing to get the thought out. To expel the words from my mind and feel the relief of new space, openness for renewal. Or perhaps it is the complete opposite. Perhaps the reason matters less than the process and commitment to complete the message and learn a bit more about oneself in the process. Peace is in there somewhere too.