Louise Gallagher, in her blog A Year of Rejoicing, wrote a post that’s had me thinking deeply. She talked about not writing — even though she loves it — because she’s afraid of being consumed by it. I issued an inner gasp as it’s been tweaking the outer edges of my consciousness for some years that I often put off writing a project I’m excited about because I know I become consumed and something in me fears that.
Another lovely night tonight provided me with the chance for some more hammock time and I devoted some of it to thinking about what she said. I can see that I have some deep ruminating and meditating to do about this.
When I wrote my novel I was at an unusual moment at which I had no job, did have some accumulated money, was running crazy amounts of kundalini (fueling the creative fires), and had a free-wheeling schedule. I gave myself over to the novel, which flowed at quite a pace. I let the ebbs and flows of the novel guide me through my days. Sometimes I finished a section and there was nothing more. So I’d lie on a chaise on the deck and breathe in the eucalpytus and watch clouds and/or take a nap and/or visit the gym/a friend/the grocery. After time spent not worrying about it the next piece of the book would start writing itself and I’d pick up my pen. Some days I wrote 12 or 14 hours, some days only a few.
That summer felt like I was where I was supposed to be (Corte Madera), doing what I was supposed to be doing for the first time ever. And that’s the feeling that something in me is afraid to go back to. I’m also afraid of letting go of the goofy stuff that makes up a lot of my schedule because the book consumes me. There are deeper issues I’m sure and thus the need to ruminate.
I’m really excited about this book I’m working on for Camp NaNoWriMo, which is applying spiritual principles to the question of how to have better relationships with other people. And the more it comes together and the more excited I feel the more I catch my breath and move in a different direction…