I have spent most of the afternoon trying to write an entertaining and informative post about character development. After several false starts and two totally awful, and rambling, drafts, I gave up. Immediately after tucking my tail and running away from my blog responsibilities, I felt slightly ashamed of myself and more than a little defeated. Am I losing it as writer? How hard can it be to write about something so basic? If I can't be creative on my blog, what would the next year, trying make it as writer, hold for me?
That last question seems way too heavy and much too serious for a Friday evening, but writer's block, genuine creativity, and lucrative inspiration are very much on my mind. In three short days, I will be relocating from the middle-of-nowhere Ozark, IL to the middle-of-a-place-I-know-nothing-about Raleigh, NC. I am quitting my job in search of a new life and a new life's work. This life change has not snuck up on me. Since the end of May, I have been mentally, emotionally, and physically preparing for a huge relocation and reality check.
This evening, I turned away from forcing myself to write for awhile as I continued to pack my belongings. I am at that point in the moving process when just about everything is in a box. Some essential clothes and items remain strewn about my house, but everything else is boxed, labeled, and sealed. If you have ever spent more than a day or two in a house full of boxes, ready to move, you know tempting it is to just jump in a cartoon yourself, tape it up, and take a nap until you arrive at your new destination.
But, I denied the urge to climb in temporary closet box and decided to collect all my knick-knacks and random items once and for all. On the front of my frig is a collection of photos, small posters, and miscellaneous items that simply make me smile. One of my favorites is a postcard with two pictures. On one half is a photo with a hamster gingerly half-in, half-out of a Ball jar. It reads "Seek comfort." The other half is a picture of a fish bravely jumping from his fish bowl. The caption says "Seek challenge."
This simple postcard says it all.
I am excited to leave southern Illinois, and I am terrified to start over again. Now that I have finally figured out all the short-cuts and back roads here, I will have to get out my maps and feel like a tourist all over again. I am looking forward to meeting new people, and I am nervous that no one will like me. I have finally gathered a group of intelligent and fun people close to me, and I will have to tolerate crowds of mundane and boring "new" friends until I weed out the ones I just can't stand. I am ready for a less intense day job that affords me more time to write, but I am out of practice with pen and paper.
In the past three years, I have revised and edited the hard work of other writers. I have offered character and story advise. I have worked for tirelessly for the creative success of others. But, at the end of the same three years, the amount of work I have done for my own creative growth fills maybe twenty pages. In one semester of college, I logged over 500 pages of short stories and screenplays. Even if I wasn't very poignant, I was certainly prolific back then.
A sinking feeling washed over me suddenly as I struggled to write a few witty paragraphs. Is writing really like riding a bike? Do I just need to practice and get good again? Or is it something more fleeting and ethereal? If you don't use it, you lose it, right? Three years of idle brain function could prove to have been a disastrous choice.
Instinctively, I know the answer this dilemma. My creative journey is going to be like learning a new place. Awkward for awhile, full of cul-de-sacs that look like through streets on the map, and crowded with ideas and inspirations that take time to get to know and appreciate.
With free time soon to be at my disposal, I will have to follow my own advice. Write often, write well, and revise. Write what I know, what I am learning, and what I struggle to understand. Appreciate that hamster and encourage that fish.
