I have absolutely no imagination. I cannot make up characters, or stories, but I can tell the truth all the live long day.
When I start typing words before I’ve thought them, that is when my writing is at its best, it seems. I am never sure. I have to wait for feedback, and for those friends who continue to provide that, you astonish me and I’m eternally grateful.
In the beginning the friends’ comments threw me off of my writing for some reason. It didn’t matter if the comments were positive or negative. They just threw me off, slowed me down, dampened the flame of inspiration for weeks at a time. So I stopped looking at and responding to the comments for a while. And yet, it fed my inspiration in other ways to realize that I had an audience that found my writing worthwhile.
I skimmed a couple of articles on how to write and I thought the advice was very good. But then I found I couldn’t find my old inspiration again if I thought about the advice. I can’t think about what I’m doing or it’s ruined, let’s just say. There are many kinds of writers and I think I’m learning what kind I am.
Before I write anything anymore the first thing I do is a form of a prayer I suppose. Because it seems to work, it’s become a kind of ritual … I let my arms fall limp at my side, head down, and I say “i really don’t want to write anymore but if you want me to please guide my thoughts and hands.”
That’s it.
<<<<< There is a state of absolute surrender that has to be reached. And I believe this applies to more than just writing. >>>>
After that ritual I don’t try and force myself to write anything. I go about my day. Sooner or later something stirs a memory, a song, a photo, a conversation, spring buds on the trees, and I become obsessed with putting the memory down on paper. I have to get it out of me. It’s like giving birth. And after I’m done I’m exhausted for a while. Confused and dismayed. What did I just create? What did I just say?
[[[[[[[[[[[[[[ Sometimes, and increasingly so, I leave it to my audience to tell me what I’ve just written. And I’m thinking this is an amazing new method of creative writing. I’m being educated and trained by my audience. An interactive form of writing. A living journal. I guess that’s what blogs are, etc. Nothing unique about this after all. ]]]]]]]]]]
But I also feel that something in me has been healed. Another piece of the puzzle has just fit into place. And then I realize what a broken life I’ve had, now having to pick up all the pieces and put it all back together. Life threatening and life ending events flying in my face with rarely a break. I hardly had a time to take a breath for most decades.
I lived life on the edge when I think of the number of times I should not have survived. And with all of that, I am now educated enough to realize that I am still better off than more than 99% of the human race has ever been.
Most stigmatizing of all though, of course, is the mental illness within the family. So there’s that.
I have so many more stories I want to share … I have vivid memories and it feels important to share them … they seem to be stories that write themselves…
But the arthritis in my hand is making it almost impossible to type any more for a while … the aspirin is tearing up my gut and I have to take a break …
I planned to never have that hand surgery because, although it would alleviate the pain, I would never have the same strength in my hands again. I’m not ready to give that up yet. My only other two passions other than writing, are gardening and cooking and you need full strength for that.
There is no cartilage in my thumb joint, in either of them, from the 20 years of cleaning 13 houses a week, no doubt. I thought I was invincible. I couldn’t begin to estimate how many mops, sponges, and rags that I squeezed, or the number of broomsticks, mop handles, dusters and vacuums that I gripped … but it all added up to injury and everyone who works in this industry should be paid at least double, not to mention afforded the benefits that most other laborers receive as a matter of course.
My days of gruesome hardship are over, at least for now, knock wood and everything else, so I’m not complaining on my behalf. …… just saying it’s my observation that laborers in the home cleaning industry are probably not being paid a real living wage yet and it’s not a good thing. That’s all I have to say for now. Ouch! 😦
Oikos 