How long’s it been? This is the question I ask in between several hi’s and hugs I’ve gotten today at the coffee shop. Yup, I came here to write, but instead, I’ve spent time hugging friends, blowing air kisses, watching the clock and, singing along to the radio station. So, how long’s it been? I have sat here for more than three hours, can you imagine? The plan was to, oh I don’t know write a book today, get it published tomorrow, rake in dollars by what, next week. Yeah, right! No, the truth is I have been sat here for three hours waiting, praying, hoping for inspiration to hit, but nothing’s come. I know they say writers write even without a reason to write, but if I am to be completely honest, I write for the sake of getting better.
So maybe I’m not a writer. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought it, probably won’t be the last. Maybe I just happen to be someone who can write. Lots of people can do things. That doesn’t mean they do do them or even should. I admire creatives, writers, painters, actors, directors, the mom who paints Easter eggs for the hunt each year. I admire anyone who feels so compelled to say something that they are led to create. If you create you’ve got a not so secret fan in me.
Meanwhile, here I am sitting in a cafe. I’ve been here for three hours and, nothing. I never seem to have a story to tell. Composition class in elementary school was always the worst for me because I just couldn’t come up with a story of my own, I always needed a prompt. And, for those of you who’ve read my blog from A to Zed which, isn’t hard – I post so infrequently, you see a common narrative, don’t you? I whine a bit about having no inspiration and somehow that turns into a post.
If you’ve seen the film “The Family Stone”, there is a rather poignant scene where the Claire Danes character shares the story of a man somewhere in Alaska who told the people in his town that he felt like he had a hole in his heart. His neighbours, upon hearing this, pooled their resources and bought him a 12-foot log. It took him a year but, he carved a totem pole. They understood he had something to say, something that words couldn’t and it left him with a hole in his heart. Out of that sadness came something truly beautiful.
Meanwhile, here I am sitting in a cafe. I’ve been here for three hours and, I need inspiration dammit! Nothing is coming. How am I supposed to come up with something to write. By the way, WordPress keeps gently reminding me I haven’t posted anything in several months. Apparently, my followers miss me. I feel like that man with a hole in his heart
P. G. Wodehouse happens to be one of my favourite writers, he would get up every morning at half seven and by nine, having breakfasted and walked his dogs, would be at his typewriter plonking away. In his earlier years, he’d average 2500 words per day. In his eighties, Wodehouse not only maintained the routine but, he still averaged 1000 words daily. Me on the other hand, I’ll be lucky if I can finish this blog.
Meanwhile, it’s been three hours and all I’ve managed to do is sing along to the broadcast because, well yeah, it’s quite upbeat and poppy, just like I like it. But hey, I learnt a new word on Sunday – Sehnsucht which is German and it means a yearning; wistful longing. Hahaha, yup, that’s the universe telling me to put the laptop down and try again tomorrow.