I wrote this post on my former blog when Silas was 15 months old. I am including it here because it deals with writer’s block and with epiphanies both of which I am currently experiencing. As you will note, I need to get back in this saddle.
So, while I flounder around starting posts and stopping them mid-sentence so that I can edit, edit, edit my content, so that I can double-check to make sure that I am saying what I am meaning to say, so that I can verify that I am writing something worthy of this brand of instant “publication”, I am, by all stretches of the creative imagination, not writing at all. (In fact, I just started to delete this sentence and then stopped myself and forced myself to write it before I could read back to the beginning and delete the whole damn thing. Where are thou, my self-confidence???)
So, I have, just recently, in the last few days in fact, experienced a little, life-altering epiphany. And, yes, like most life-altering epiphanies–or at least like most of my life-altering epiphanies, because I have had so very many, you know– the burst of mind-numbing enlightenment was completely obvious. Beyond obvious. Let me fill you in…
While perched on the toilet– I admit that I often feign constipation in order to fulfill my literary yearnings– I revisited the introduction to Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. In her opening paragraph, she discusses a childhood filled with books and with people actually reading them. She talks about a writer father who sprawled across the couch every evening after dinner to read, read, read. She writes about how the whole family would retire to their favorite reading spot and about how, on occasion, their house was also filled with, perhaps better than books, her father’s writer friends, who would, to Lamott’s dismay, occasionally pass out at the dinner table. Ah! How I wished, with all my stupid heart’s desire, that I could be living that life.
Living that life?!? You’d think I was envious of someone who built a 4-acre palace on the back-side of a cumulus cloud. I mean, golly, turning my back deck into the Playboy Mansion may be a little beyond my reach, but living in a house in which people stretched out after a good meal to enjoy a good book?!?
Yeah. I’ve been spending my time desperately yearning for the easily possible.