New year, new/no motivation.

Reasons I don't write:
I don't want to.
I don't like to,
I'm not good at it.
I don't want to write bad things.
I don't want to use up good ideas.
There's nothing to write.
People don't want to read what I write.
I might offend someone.
There is literally nothing I can write without offending someone, somewhere.

I was recently watching a show, hesitant to say which, but maybe should so people can avoid spoilers. Anyhow, there's this idea that everything we do somehow negatively impacts people, right down to buying a tomato, because somewhere along the way buying that tomato supports something bad. So yeah, we could take that to mean that everything we do could potentially hurt someone or support something we don't like. But the show misses the point that if were were never allowed to do something that might potentially offend someone we would be unable to do anything. The show practically takes away free will, saying that no matter what we do we are hell-bound because everything we do is leading us closer to hell.

Here's the thing. We would be headed for hell without the Lord constantly pulling us back. The Lord does not work on a point system. He takes our actions and intentions into account.

You may have heard the phrase "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." The point of that is that intention alone won't do you a thing. "I was planning on-" is useless. Do the thing. If you buy a tomato because you want to feed your family, then the chain of consequences about how that tomato got to you is not what matters. It's the tomatoes future that matters. Not its past.

Yeah, okay, maybe you should be supporting local business and not some cooperate food supplier, but that's not what matters. The Lord doesn't change your passage to heaven based on where you bought your food.

One thing the show does get right is that your actions matter. No one is saved by baptism. How you live matters. I do love the show. You probably know the one I'm talking about. I hope I didn't spoil anything for you.

What does getting to heaven and this tv show have to do with writing?

Oh right, you can't be stuck, unable to write for fear of offending someone. I'm gonna offend someone. And that can be scary. I can think of things I want to write that might make people I love think less of me. And what people think of me matters. I can't be useful to people if I alienate people.

I hope that people know that when I write, I am doing my best to help, not hurt.

Nevertheless, writing is scary and you'll be lucky if you get another blog post out of me before July.

Lucky? Already I doubt that, because who even cares if I write or not? No, I'm not looking for validation. I just think that most of the time I am writing for me, and no one will really notice if they don't see a blog post from me until next year. Whatever. This post is long enough. I wrote something.

I forgot how to write.

Oh hey, remember me? My mind does not even know how to write anymore. I've been trying to write a thing for weeks now. WEEEEEKS. And I just can't do it. My mind is SO on other things. My mind was on painting every day of September and ink doodles every day of October.

And now it's November I'm supposed to be writing but my brain is so not in that space or into it at all. I keep trying to motivate myself or put in any sort of effort at all but I just can't.

Oh, and PS I still write longhand every single morning, but it isn't inspiring intellectual writing. It's kinda being an outlet for words to fall from my brain to the page and nothing more.

Did my brain just stop? Did I forget how to write? It took me probably half an hour to write this blog post. I'm in trouble.

Morning Drivel

Nothing like early morning airport runs to get the mind going. Actually, on a Friday morning, even at 5:30am, the traffic isn't very pretty and so a lot of energy goes into navigating merging and other drivers' questionable choices. It's not really a reflective time. But I've been awake for over 3 hours and don't have time to nap before work so why not write something on my neglected blog? At this hour, on this fuzzy brain it will either be boring drivel or I'll stumble upon something brilliant that my mind can't comprehend. I'm betting on the former, but who knows? Monkeys haven't yet typed the complete works of William Shakespeare, right? So maybe there's no basis for believing that I could stumble upon some wisdom. Though I do hope that I am somewhat more advanced than a monkey with a typewriter.

Speaking of the Shakespeare, some of my cool friends are doing The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, abridged. It's going to be hilarious, and it's Shakespeare so it's also going to be off-color so probably don't bring your kids. But bring yourself because it's hilarious. I read it and even reading it on my own I laughed aloud. I couldn't say "laughed out loud" because then everyone just thinks "lol" which essentially means "oh, mildly funny." But this is actually funny. Spoiler alert, they do Hamlet in 5 minutes, and also less. They do the complete works in an hour and a half! (Link for more info!)

Anyhow, what was I saying? Oh, nothing. Right. I am writing for the sake of writing and I don't have anything profound to say so I'll continue on with my pointless drivel. 

I like Kempton. I like my niecephews. I like the cute childrens who aren't even my niecephews. I like rainstorms. I like crisp fall air with those piercing blue skies. 

I just found out that there are people who actually like humidity. I mean, I have heard of people who tolerate it and manage to enjoy summer despite it. I can understand that... a little. But some people only like moist heat. I, on the other hand, can only stand dry heat. I love dry heat. I loved California! Humidity is most foul. Apparently some people like it. Some people like fish too. 

I still haven't killed very much time. I guess I shouldn't kill time. It's handy stuff and I could move on to painting or just go to work early. P.S. I love painting.

Coffee and my journal (which I did not paint)

Done = Art

I am hiding. Hiding from ideas. Hiding from writing. You might see me posting daily paintings and that might look like I'm doing something and not being afraid. But I am still just as afraid as I was yesterday. But when I decide to do something, I do it. If I say that I'm going to post a painting a day, I'll post a painting a day, even if I hate the painting. I should probably have a blog month too, where I have to post every day even if it's terrible.

Everything feels terrible. That's not even the slightest bit true. I actually love life so much right now. It is cold and rainy. Positivity weather for me. I love it! I have a new job. It's an adjustment to my life but I love that too. Everything is pretty fantastic so why did I say it feels terrible?

Because no matter how much I am loving life I still think that my writing and painting is no good. Which is just ridiculous. Because guess what, I am painting and I wasn't before. That is good. I am writing. I wasn't before. That is good. My paintings today are not Monet or van Gogh. But they are mine and they are better than they were a year ago. And they are better than nothing.

The paintings are mine and I take great joy and pride in my paintings. Let me tell you something, I love paint! I love the way it feels when I get it on my hands. I love watching something fluid go smoothly on and how it layers and dries.

But I hide from all of these joys because I am not yet da Vinci. It is scary to share mediocre work and pretend that it is good. But I have to remember that it is not pretending. Of course it's not master work. But it is work. And I love it. I care a lot that other people like it too, but I am trying to not value my paintings on the amount of likes they get. I am allowed to love a painting that got 3 likes even if another got 53. I am allowed to love my work and that is not vanity.

People talk about artists gifts. They call certain artists "gifted."

But I have another secret for you, it is true that some things come more naturally to some than to others, but sometimes to call what someone does "a gift" negates the hours of work they put in to get to that level. The artists true gift is the gift of perseverance. Not giving up even when they feel blocked and uninspired.

And that is the gift that I am struggling with. I may not be a gifted writer or a gifted painter, but the Lord gave me perseverance and dedication. I can be pretty bad at motivating myself, but if I set myself a task I will do it. Which is why I often set myself small tasks, because they are attainable. I can't set myself a task that I might not be able to achieve, not because I'm a perfectionist but because I have to believe it is doable. Setting a goal of a painting a day is achievable because I can put a splat of paint on a canvas and call it done. Done = Art.

But if I set myself the goal of becoming something, or achieving some level of skill then I don't know that I can do that and I will stop before I begin. Art is attainable. Writing is attainable. It doesn't have to be good; it has to be done.

"I will take care of the quantity; He will take care of the quality." - Julia Cameron

The Broken Pieces of Yesterday

It was the first calm day in weeks and he couldn't resist taking his book down to the dock to read. It wasn't warm enough for swimming and the slight wind was cool enough that he was grateful for his windbreaker.

The calm was disrupted by a footfall on the dock which sent the dock bobbing on the water.

He looked up and sighed. "What are you doing here?" he asked, not looking at her but returning to his book.

"I wanted to talk."

He didn't respond, but continued to look at his book but he wasn't reading it anymore.

She sat down and stuck her bare feet into the water, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again.

"I wanted to talk," she repeated. Not looking around.

"What's the point?" he asked, closing his book and getting to his feet. "The wound was healing! You coming here today is just ripping the scab off. Why do you insist on picking at it? This will only make it bleed more."

"I like blood," she said quietly. "It's clean."

He stared at her. "Clean?"

She shrugged. "Some things need to bleed."

"Most things need to heal." He didn't really want to listen to this anymore. He took one step toward the shore then called over his shoulder. "Stop picking at it and it will."

"Are you closing the door on me?" she asked, pulling her feet out of the cold.

"No, you closed the door on me," he said. "Let's not pretend it was any different." He gave her one last look and strode from the dock, but she followed.

"Well, you know what they say about closing doors and opening windows," she said, catching up to him and matching his stride.

He kept walking. "That windows aren't nearly as helpful as doors when it comes to moving forward?"

She laughed. "Maybe the smaller gap is so that you'll try harder!"

But he was not amused. He stopped and turned back to her.

"Are you saying you want me to try harder?" he asked. She saw the pain behind the question and hesitated.

"No," she said slowly. "I didn't mean that."

"Look, I'm not trying to force anything," he said. "I won't close you out or close any doors, but I'm not gonna stand waiting and weeping either."

"Weeping?" she asked. A shadow crossed her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly as she stared at the ground.

But he wasn't interested in an apology. "Why are you following me? Are you unhappy?"

She stopped, a little surprised. "I'm not unhappy," she said. "Do I have to be unhappy to talk to you?"

"Yes!" he said angrily. "I don't understand you! You made your decision. You chose him. What are you doing here now?"

"I miss you," she said in a small voice.

"You aren't allowed to miss me if you're with him. It has to be a choice. You can't have it both ways."

She nodded, biting her lip. "I'm sorry you think that," she said. And she turned to go.

"I don't understand you, Meg!"

"Why can't I be with him and still be friends with you?" 

"Because that's bloody weird! I'm sorry, but you just can't keep things the way they were. It doesn't work. When you walked away, that was the end. You can change your mind, but you can't keep us both in your life. It's that simple."

"I wish it were," she said. "But I will go. And I won't bother you anymore."

He watched her. "But do you understand?" he asked.

"I think so."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted to shut you out, but you see why it has to be this way, don't you?"

She bit her lip. "I wish I did."

"I don't understand you," he said again.

"That's part of it, isn't it?" she said sadly. "It turns out we were never on the same page."

"Then why do you insist on keeping me in your life?" he asked wildly.

"Because you had something that I wanted," she admitted.

"Are you talking about that scotch?"

"No," she wanted to laugh, but her heart was hurting too much. "It wasn't anything like that. You're just a person I wanted to be around. You meant something to me."

He shook his head. "Stop picking at the scab, Megan."

"I like blood," she repeated.

Writer's Block

And again words are escaping me. Why? Why am I afflicted with writer's block. I understand not knowing what comes next in the story and being stuck on a plot point or how to write it or resolve it. I haven't touched any of my stories in months. One story died when I went off the outline. I need to take it back to where it diverged and just try to write from there, like nothing else had happened. Just try a different path to the fountain. Throw out the blockage. Well, I can keep it in my deleted scenes folder. But write I must.

Can writers block be the inability to put pen to paper? Anyone could write something. Why is a blank page so daunting? I fear the first page in an empty book. I psych myself out that I can't mark up a book with such potential. But once the book has its first page written in then it isn't intimidating. So why the block? It's an empty page. Literally anything could be written on it. Feather, blue, ground, elevator, bucket, quicksotic. Haha! That's definitely not how you spell that, but that's the point. Anything. Words. Feelings. Colors. Bandaids. Pandas. I could write about anything. That should be freeing, but it's limiting. Everyone needs perimeters. Having no boundary creates too much to figure out. Limit the choices. Writer's block springs then from there being too much a character could do, not too little. 

Something Is Missing

I feel like my poetic writing is dead. I used to be able to wax poetic about my surroundings and the smell of the air and... I'm stuck looking around for the right word but nothing follows that 'and'.

It is like the words have gone away. There are no words to grasp. They have run away from me and then won't let themselves be captured by my pen. The words are free. But not freely flowing on to my paper. Free to run away. Free to roam the world, not confined to the page anymore. But because of this flight my pages remain blank and unloved.

What remains is an empty sorrow. It is hollow and alone. Colors. Colors might still present themselves to me in a vivid array of madness.

The words contain no order. No sense rests within them unless it be a sense of unease.

Something is missing. It's not just the words that have run away. Something is missing.

Do you hear the silence? Birds are chirping, the wind is stirring the trees, a mechanical whirring sound. But the silence is profound. Months of death. The words aren't escaping into their ownness. They are dying. They are dying from their lack. They have no where to go and no one to walk beside. They sit in the land of no use awaiting the return. But they sit in solitude not knowing their neighbors. Not knowing what to do, because a word alone can't make sense without the other pieces around it. It might have the best location of all but with no neighbors to love, it lives a meaningless life of solitude. But alone it sits. Waiting for the life to breathe into it.

Waiting for the breath of lives.