Finding the right boots

I’m finding this whole new world of writing and the reading about writing (i.e. the writer’s journey) rather exhilarating.  I feel like I’m finally finding my own feet – the feet with actual flesh and bones and nerves – not the heavy, titanium knee-high boots I convinced myself to put on every day because, well, they were just oh so shiny. So very red and shiny and presumably magical, if the Wizard of Oz was anything to go by.

I put those boots on every day since I stepped into uni, with the hope that they would one day make me fly.

Surprisingly, I did fly.  Not that I would have forgiven myself for anything less back then.  In hindsight, I flew higher than I ever thought I could in the time it took me to get there.

But the boots were heavy.  Stupidly heavy.  It was taking every ounce of my being to get them off the ground each morning, when it ‘should’ have been like breathing.  It took much more energy than I thought I even had in me to sustain my flight day after day. I began dreading putting on those shiny red titanium boots each morning.  I would look at them and start crying, then look at them again to see if I was merely allergic to something in the room (Life, perhaps, har), nope, and start crying again.  All before I’ve even had my morning coffee.  All before I even got dressed for the day.  Yep, very red.  Red flags everywhere.

So for now, at least, I’ve put them boots away.  Life is too short to be suffering long term when you have a choice not to.  Even if that means having to confront another type of risk head on.

I may not be a published author, or even have a published article or a well-received blog.  Heck I don’t even have a story line nutted out in my head to say, “I’m working on a novel”.  Also, apparently writing for a living really isn’t the most lucrative business out there.  But something in me stirs every time I read, something in me ignites every time I write.

I don’t care if I don’t write the next novel-turned-shitty-but-profitable-hollywood-blockbuster.  I just want to be able to make someone else’s heart tremble – with joy, with sorrow, with bittersweetness or even fear.  All but with a set of carefully chosen words.

I want to make someone fall in love.

And I’ve a long way to go.

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Hurl

At times I find myself willing myself to throw up, as if the physical act of hurling would expell all the thoughts that are layered with insecurity, doubt, fear and the overwhelming sense of ‘what is the fucking point?’ out of my body, like they were physical ailments that could be fixed by a simple remedy.

Or I could be hungry. I go to all sorts of dark places when I’m low on blood sugar.

Yep, that must be it.

Now fix it.

This is what five drinks does. I mean do.

There is an impulse to write, but the question is, about what, exactly? There’s an unquenchable thirst, as cliche as it sounds, to have the depths of a soul put on paper. To have the most private insecurities, wants, fantasies described and painted to the reader with utmost detail. For him or her to be naked, to be absolute vulnerable and transparent about what it is like to be human.  For the reader to relate, to appreciate that they themselves have had similar struggles, that Life is not perfect, that even when no one around them can seem to understand, the protagonist does, to the depths of their being. And that gives strength. A camaraderie, an understanding.

We put so much emphasis on image, to a point where we are embarrassed to admit to each other that we have personal struggles. There is so much stigma around mental health. We don’t like to admit that we are down, we don’t like to admit that this thing called Life, it’s fucking hard, and at times it hurts so much it can take your breath away and make you wonder if it’s worth taking another breath to simply keep breathing.

Or there is simply so much information to digest about one single individual that we take the easy way out and on first impressions, we group them into job titles, gender, race, level of grooming and even the partner they choose. And that’s why we have this unfathomable distance between us.

I don’t really know how to conclude this post; I opened up a blank screen and this is what eventuated. But I’m writing again.

Regularly.

I don’t actually mind being that protagonist, if I should be so lucky.

One can dream.

Why writers write about writing, by Brianna Wiest

It’s been a couple of inspiring days.  I’m feeling closer to finding my element.

The apex of the inspiration came from this beautifully written piece, by Brianna Wiest.

Fellow writers, I hope you find the same inspiration in this piece as I did.

We write because we have to.  We write because there is no better way that we know to calm the storm and chaos within us.  We write to preserve the magic we saw in the world as children, the magic that is gradually corroded as we get older, as we become entrenched in ‘the real world’ out of necessity to survive as adults.  We write because at least someone needs to highlight the less obvious things in Life, things that would generally be missed due to the pace of which our world operates at, and instill wonder, perspective and inspiration into people’s lives.

I’m feeling a change in gear within me.  Let’s do this.

Let’s talk about the weather; it’ll be riveting.

I’m loving these random storms we are having this week. Probably not ‘random’ per se, given we have a whole national bureau dedicated to forecasting the weather, but I stopped looking at the forecast a while ago.  The weather in this country has a mind of its own – also with a multiple personality disorder potentially, so I’ve given up trying to understand it even with the help of professionals.  Plus, I’m liking these nice surprises.  Only when I’m not caught in them, that is.

Today was bright and sunny – rather warm, as we have officially stepped into summer, but pleasant with a cool breeze that comes and goes as it wishes.  The neighbours’ washing is on the line, baking and drifting in the sun over the kempt green lawn.  A day not quite hot enough for a swim, but would be perfect for a nice stroll down a sandy beach.

I’ve had the luxury of having time to look up at the sky and just watch the clouds. I notice the different whites, the shades of greys, the perceived texture or ‘fluffiness’ if you will, and lastly the speed of which the clouds are moving. It sounds bizarre that I call something so simple – and maybe even dull for some – a luxury, but the world is going at such an unsustainable pace, I often think the world is forgetting what it is like to breathe.  But more on that in another post.

Back to looking at my neighbours’ lawn.  A rumble in the distance.  Is someone unloading a removalist van, perhaps, and rolling the wheels of its carts quickly over the dotted metal ramp extended from the vehicle?  Hmmm….  Another rumble.  Look up.  It’s still nice and bright, the blue sky is still visible and the clouds are still fairly white. Can’t be a storm, then… What is that sound?  A third rumble – one that makes the ground beneath me buzz with vibration, and then, out of nowhere, a zap of lightning zips across the sky.  Holy shit, it’s a storm?

Surprise!

And just as you expect the Heavens to break its seal after what would seem like at least 8 rounds of drinks (charming, I know), and just bucket down to drench all that is within its reach –

Nope. Nada.

The ground is still as dry as stale toast and the breeze still gentle.  Keep rumbling away then, Mr. Storm.  I’m guessing Mrs. Storm is running a little late to the surprise party.  I won’t be the rude one and point out that surprises don’t generally work that way… I won’t be one to digress.

I like watching storms break.  I like watching the weather change and us measly humans freak the shit out when we’re caught out without waterproof attire.  Don’t worry, I do it too.  Here, have a smiley face. 🙂

I’ve digressed.

So I am waiting for Mrs. Storm to arrive, and Mr. Storm seems happy rumbling away.  I figure I have time to make a tea to watch the big ‘surprise’ show from my balcony.  The breeze has dropped a few degrees in temperature, and the ‘coming and going’ is now rather gusty. The water’s boiling, my mug is ready, and I am sadly rather excited by the prospects of a Storm Spectacular.  I have so much hope.

Then, SPLASH, Mrs. Storm greets me – personally, too – with a huge, wet slap on my arm. Through the half-opened window as I stand there making my tea, and right down my arm.  I didn’t even know she could reach that far.  I look up through my water-streaked window and my view now has an additional filter on it, grey and spotty.  The sound of rain crashing onto all surfaces the eye can see grows into a crescendo.  The rumbling thunder is now articulated by a loud, neck-tingling clap at the start of each verse.

Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The Storm Spectacular has officially begun.