Every day I look at this file on my computer, the file that's supposed to be turning into my novel, and I see not many words at all.
I look at this poor old blog, and see not many words at all. None, in fact, since the beginning of the month.
The only things I post on Twitter are my Instagram photos, and even my favorite geek hangout Facebook has been a quiet place for me recently - the Instagram photos get posted there too, and maybe a few comments on friends' posts that amuse me.
What happened to the optimism, the rush of energy to write more, to write longer, to CREATE? What happened to that heart-gut certainty that a writing life will be the life that says to me daily, Here is where authentic is. Yes. Do this. You're on the Right Path.
Maybe that deep gut certainty is still there. But the life I'm living is somehow letting the other voices weigh in louder. The inner critic (mine) is merciless, but also I hear the [imagined] Others that misunderstand, that deliberately misinterpret, that judge my humble words as not close to good enough.
It's the freezing of a pond - at the outer edges the words freeze as I try to weave them into fictions of people leading hard, mysterious lives. That ice hardens and spreads as I become exhausted even thinking about a blog post, and have 702
I am scared, actually, by how often that freeze happens. It's just a long and cold winter in my creative life right now. I let those voices shout out loud over the still small voice of authenticity. The warm voice gently murmuring create, Kirsten, create.
Maybe today make it a quick status update. Maybe tomorrow it can be another blog post.
The only, the only way to the thaw is by breathing deep the warm air of creativity. To Just Write.