Wednesday, August 8, 2012
trying a new thing on the blog—hopefully something that will last a long while—my first guest post.
i'm so pleased to introduce you to my friend brook, who has been a writer since i've known her, and has just started on her first novel project. brook is an herbalist, nutritionist, reader, and the person i go to when when i need wisdom to face my own challenges. when i first met her, i felt like it was a reacquainting, because i'm certain i knew her before this earth life. she is really one of my soul mates and i'm so happy to be able to share her with the rest of you.
here are her words on beginning.
a friend said, "try."
and i looked at the keyboard and wondered.
i had always said i would.
and i ached at the lost time since my declaration.
and i wondered. . .
could i give myself permission to daydream?
to steal out of the covers early in the morning to commune with my characters?
and sit out on the porch at night, while everyone was sleeping and listen. to listen to the sounds of my story. working in the sound of the crickets and the breeze?
and take bits and parts of myself.
and all the things i love.
and weave them together in that just right paragraph that begs to be read again and again?
and so i combated the daily "not nows" and the bigger "not yets" and the nasty "not good enoughs"
and i settled down in to it.
and let myself feel.
and as I wrote I began to feel me.
bits and pieces floating up to the surface.
and i wrote them down.
and i cried and sighed and felt and believed in these characters and this story.
and in these stolen moments
i wasn't a mother.
i was just me.
selfishly, completely, wonderfully me.
and yet all those rich experiences came through as i wrote but I tied them together in my own creation. molding them. turning them round to inspect.
and i began to assemble. . .
notes scribbled on tiny pages, church announcements, to-do lists, and brightly colored birthday card envelopes.
i felt myself opening.
creating a space.
a story only i could tell.
writing the book i wanted to read
the book that had this without the that.
and that without the this.
and the this and this and this that made me clap and rush to write it down,
eager to get to the end of the story, as if I was reading it, instead of writing it.
and then I battled the “not yets” and “not enoughs”again and made myself brave
and sent a little bit out
to share with a friend.
was it amateur?
i read it again to see.
and realized, it spoke to me.
full of wishes
but it was there, pages and pages.
because someone whispered, "try."