Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – February 4, 2004
Writing
Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – February 4, 2004 – It’s frequently said that a writer’s life is an isolated, often lonely one. Pictures of the scribes of old, secluded in a garret, gnarled fingers curled around a feather pen, writing on scraps of paper by candlelight come to mind. Rather Shakespearean!
Not to say that modern writers suffer the same fate – however I am finding this “act” of writing something every day to be a bit more of a commitment than I’d anticipated. I made a decision at the start of the year to listen to the whispers in my mind, my creative yearning, to put pen to paper, or more aptly put – fingers to keyboard.
But what about the days when you think you have nothing to say? Therein lies the challenge. This is one of those days. Work consumed most of my waking hours today, and tonight was devoted to my book club. It’s ten-thirty and I just got home. I’m tired and I would like to curl up with a cup of tea and a half hour of Seinfeld re-runs – and not think about all those darn little letters that make up words and sentences!
The first Wednesday night of every second month is my meeting with the women of the Moby Dick Book Club. A diverse, bright group of women. Not a slouch amongst us. We discussed Howard’s End tonight. A sharp, well scripted novel, written with keen observation and humour about the class system in England in the early 1900’s.
In comparison – what could I possibly have to say? Right now, I think nothing, and worse still, who would care about my daily missives anyway? Is there a writer alive who feels otherwise? Yes. I’m certain of it. I’m convinced that most writers know exactly what they are doing and saying at all times – never, ever an inadequate thought. Oh – wait a minute – what about writer’s block?
Upon deeper reflection, what an easy way for me to talk myself out of this daily task. How easy to excuse myself. Nothing I write could possibly be ‘good’ – therefore why bother to continue? I could be reading, watching television, soaking in the tub, going to bed early. Instead, I’m sitting here attempting to make my required, daily literary contribution.
But why am I comparing myself to anyone else? I have a unique perspective on life. Am I writing for others or for myself? I like to think that what I’m doing could have some universal appeal. That may or may not be the case. At the end of the year I will have written 367 entries. I will have had the discipline to write every day about something in my life. Even if it ends up being for my eyes alone – what an accomplishment!
The key to this quandary is recognizing that I am indeed writing. My thoughts are being interpreted – words are appearing on my computer screen. I haven’t given up and slunk into the den to watch David Letterman. I am here – accountable – trying – learning – being challenged.
People talk all the time about what they are going to do – at some time in the future. I know – I’ve been one of those people. Now I’ve chosen to attempt something totally outside my comfort zone. I have a voice. I’m listening to it, and sharing my personal thoughts and observations about life.
This takes courage and I’m grateful to be learning new lessons, and engaged in a process that is stimulating and challenging. Why not step outside “the box” and reach for something you’ve always thought was beyond your capability?
Think about the beautiful and age-old adage”
“Should man’s reach exceed his grasp – then what’s a heaven for?”
