Accepting the Magic

I wrote quite a brilliant piece in my head as I was walking this morning.

But you know what happened, don't you? The ideas floated in my head for nary a moment or two, before they disappeared altogether.

I became distracted by the workers who had driven their truck onto the walking path as they trimmed the trees. How many more would they cut today?

I walked a little further up the hill to see if I could identify what was being built on the corner. Such an interesting shape, large, one floor with small windows on one side. Two floors, larger windows on the other side. What will it become? 

The brilliant, magical words departed.

Accepting the Magic; Courtesy Pixabay - itspinballtime

The muse vanished.

The thoughts that were meant for me, swirled around like hard to catch autumn leaves, then landed on someone else's doorstep. I'm sure.

The magic that comes to us needs to be captured and clung to, wrung out. It needs to be spoken into our phones, imprinted on our cameras, painted on our canvas, knit into our clothing.

The dreams that arrive, in pale blues and ivory, in stark blacks and reds are ours alone. Why do we ignore them thinking that perhaps they will sit and wait for us to pay attention?

Why do we hide from what brings joy to our life, postpone until our easy and mundane tasks are completed? (Tweet This)

Why do we look with envy (and sometimes scorn) at those who wear ripped jeans with their pearls?
Think that we are too old, fat, curvy, or responsible to just be silly? 
Why don't we go to the park and sit on the grass before it is covered in snow? 
See the pandas before they leave our city to go back home? 
Or rest, be quiet and accept what is searching for us?

Why must we be so sensible?

Accepting the Magic

The ideas that we notice mean something for us. They spark a thought, a dream, a plan. In such a busy world, why did this idea call our attention? (Tweet This)

What is it that we are meant to take as we pass by? (Tweet This)

We'd be foolish to dismiss what we notice too easily. 

Now tell me. How do you find the magic?

If you would like to hold on to your magic, you would enjoy Austin Kleon's book, Steal Like an Artist. It's a winner!

Impact of a Writer

It's a lonely job being a writer.

You sit and ponder, fuss over the right word and at the back of your mind, there is always a gnawing question. Do I have an impact as a writer? (Tweet This)

Impact of a Writer, Kelowna BC

Seeing your twitter and facebook followers go up, reaching a crescendo of interest and then dismally disappear. Bidding on projects and never hearing back (except for a handful, to which a writer is eternally gratetful, thank you).

Somewhere along the path of  life, you decide, don't compromise, don't whine. Don't sell your soul. But every once in a while you get the fleeting thought of joining the ranks and just sell(out?). But sell what? The choices are endless, soft taco shells for game day football, anti-aging face cream, a new yoga outfit.

You hesitate.You'll do it just once.

Nah.

And then there's my dilemma. How do you sell mindfulness, contentment, peace? How do you tell the truth of what you've learned without trespassing on someone's soul? All we have are words.

No amazing skills to sell, no life-journey from illness to health, from overweight to not, no addiction conquered. At least none I'm willing to share so blatantly, choosing to lean towards the subtle, the reader who is ready.

There are many of us out here. Sitting at our keyboards, searching for words to hit the mark, not willing to stray from the hard earned path of independence.

Many of us have given decades to raising children, running small business, being a loyal employee to a company which will give a pension. We have saved our pennies, stepped into the unknown of middle-aged dating, taken up painting or playing an instrument, maintained long-time treasured friendships. These have been our lessons.

And what we have to share might not send off fireworks, but instead light small flames, here and there. The despondent young mom who feels that "it will never end", the dad from the other side of the world who responds to your post, the reactions to your photographs that someone says touched their heart.

That's the Impact of a Writer. We are not always paid with money. That's not why we do it. (Tweet This)

Reach out once in a while to your favourite writers. Please. It is what keeps us going.

Writer's Waiting Lounge

They say to write. Just write. But what if your fingers don’t know what to type? What if your mind seems empty except for your to-do list? How interesting would that be for anyone to read?

I should make a plan. I am so envious of people who can squirrel away and put fingers to keyboard or scribble notes in a book while sitting on a bus. How wonderful to feel like “this is your time”! 

Courtesy tsg1 Pixabay

I can’t imagine writing a book in short bursts, what if your character has lots to say, what if your computer won’t boot up and now that 15 minutes is dwindling down to 14, 13 , 12 or the circle of doom is still going round and round and now you hear the front door opening, the dog bark, the kids dump their backpacks at the front door or somewhere on the way to the kitchen. What the heck do you do then? Your computer is still not connected but you put a smile on your face and accept their cold cheeks on your frustrated one.

What do you do as you sit and watch each set of headlights come down the street but it is not your child returning safely home, and you toy with a story line but cannot face how this story could end. It is full of screaming and crumpled car doors and maybe a gigantic tree trunk bends your little red Toyota in two.

Why would anyone read this rubbish that spews from my brain like an overfilled sink draining away the bad and the ugly. The things we most fear, does anyone else see the irony of putting it down on paper because you don’t ever want to live those horrible words in real life.

And then you get to the stage that you have to try again, because the words keep bumping around in your head while you're pushing your grocery cart or you're supposed to only count your inhales and exhales in Saturday morning yoga.

What do you know about travelling to foreign places and flight delays, happy and annoyed frequent flyers. Taxi cabs that take the long way when you know plain well that they are taking you for a “ride”.

You ask, and you ask and you ask. You listen and you scribble words and then you sit down and you submit. Somewhere. The magazine that calls you, the opportunity you hear of through your writing group, the post you see on facebook.

And then you wait.

  
 Writers learn to be very patient. (Click to Tweet)

How do you edit Life - when you're a writer?

It’s not the writing that’s difficult, it’s the deleting. Every one of us has a story that defies the rules of logic and sanity. Every character from my friend with the four cats that hiss at me and walk across her kitchen table, to Dan with the dimples and the plaid scarf; each one in our life creates a character to be delved into. Each action pulled from the past or from a snippet from a passerby, strangely interwoven until even I as the writer have to frown in consternation, was he real or did I make him up entirely?

How gallantly my thoughts can fly from the mundane everyday tasks to psychotic wild behaviour that we’ve all experienced with colleagues. How were you to know that medication at the proper dosage was so important to their well-being? Did you know that no amount of pandering can guarantee tenure? 

From friends left at road-side check stops with a dog too small