I am 9000 words deep, which for a novel, isn’t deep at all. But i feel like im up to my neck. I wonder where are the other 40000 words plus are going to come from and how far it will leave me under. What I’m writing, probably won’t be read my anyone or not more then five people but has inspired a fear in me. it’s one of the most terrifying things in my life right now(not true btw). Making me return to the truth that in life, the journey one goes on while embarking towards any goal is always more important then the goal itself. The goal is one blip in the journey, but the journey is many blips. Is this why people feel empty and let down after a big achievement? We’ve put so much emphasis on the destination and not enough awareness while getting there. Our bad habit of placing importance on titles and achievements devalues the experience.
So I’m writing this novel, still feel silly calling it a novel, that may never be finished, would be hard pressed to be published because of content and cohesiveness, may never be read, would certainly be judged, and i might be empty afterwards and feeling i have nothing else to write about.
I have my soundtrack i listen to without fail. The Rachel’s and Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No 1. They bring me back to the head space where the story takes place.
I can’t get out of my head, i think about it many times through out the day. I often i have to hold ideas like one holds their bladder, until i can write them down. I get restless looking a the clock, waiting for the time i might duck downstairs and get more then a few minutes to write. Otherwise i am writing when baby sleeps, when there is a lull in the family commotion, which doesn’t happen often. I feel a little addicted, a little foolish. And the content leaves my mind feeling chaotic, restless and uncomfortable. I go full circle wondering why i am investing myself in this thing, that seems an entity of it’s own, using me to channel some incoherent babble of my inner monologue and imagination.
20,000 words deep now. And i come full circle again, it’s a real ferris wheel, realizing time and time again, life is about filling your head up with ideas, goals, purpose and there is nothing more i want to do now then sit down and write. What else could be better? Sure i would paint too, but writing needs no clean up when i am called away to care for family. Getting lost in something that gives me a sense of wholeness, that no other can fill. I feel as though I’m holding hands with myself a little finally, that i have accepted life as a bit of a one person play. But baby steps of course. Things becoming clear but I’m still uncertain i want them to.