The Prodigal Creative

I've been thinking a lot about fear lately.  Why am I so afraid to go after the things I want?  I want to write- I want to be a writer.  I want to do journal therapy too, I really do, but it almost become a purposeful distraction for me- it's okay if I never write anything of consequence, I'll just teach people to do it instead.  In all honesty, about 90% of my day is spent fighting off something strong and hungry in my belly screaming for me to write.

A person has come into my life recently that is forcing my brain to reconnect with its former creative self- where symbols and metaphors are okay to use in the course of a conversation.  It's uncomfortable, I won't lie.  I feel silly and cheesy and not myself most of the time.  We're pen pals essentially and I'm not used to turning a chat about my day into something poetic- be he does and it's authentic and beautiful.  I've started to mimic his lead- using my own words and style.  I've missed these words and the order in which I place them.  My rhetoric, my panache.  This person is pulling it out of me again and I'm just now realizing that perhaps his entrance into my life isn't a random coincidence- I'm thinking it is very much intentional.  My brain is being forced to engage in ways that it hasn't in a very long time.  It's not about "hey how are you, where did you grow up."  It's about "what did you see, where did you go, who and what did you connect with that made you feel , if only for a moment, alive.  Not in a breathe in breathe out sort of way- in a way that makes you truly aware of your existence in that moment."

This is what he told me "So my new friend Sarah (which by the way is a lovely name) I want to stress on the importance of writing. Submit your writing to all the places you can, knock on all the doors until your knuckles are bloody, and write until your notebooks are so colorful that when people read them their jaws drop wide with amazement. " I think I need more colored pens.


Last night, as I wrote to him, I remembered what I love so much about writing- the challenge of finding a way to say something that's been said a million times and understood by everyone- in a way no one has ever said it before.  That made me feel something- in that completely aware of my fingers and heartbeat sort of way.


I've been in a slump lately and I couldn't figure out why- the weather, school, money woes, etc etc.  I tried getting more vitamin D and completely ignored my school work.  Nothing was working.  Until last night when I finally tapped that right side of brain that was gathering dust.  Today I'm feeling more inspired   That familiar catch in my chest when Hoppipola comes on my iPod and I feel like I could grasp the whole world with the tip of my pen and still have room and love enough to lie in the grass and let the little bugs explore my skin.  


I'm afraid I'm not making much sense now.  And the only way I can explain it is that I feel alive again- connected and in tune with my mind.  At least a little bit.  And at least more than yesterday.  And certainly more than the day before.  I feel the electric buzz of creation in my brain.  And all it took was returning to the thing I love.