A Writing Binge Begins

Fingers to the keyboard, I begin to divulge my epic tale; ever since I can remember, I’ve been writing. Stories and poems, novels that could have been amazing and the occasional screenplay; I have hundreds of print-outs scattered throughout this house I live in, some of which have even been neatly gathered and stored in rough filing systems. During a discussion on a Tuesday evening, I realize that over the past few months I’ve been preparing to do something I’ve never done before.

If I was ever to write a book or screenplay, what would it be about? The first thing that comes to mind is always rooted in my passion for shaping reality. Like the work I do on the path that creeps through our little forest on the outskirts of a small Midwest town: pulling plants up by their roots, using a broom and rake to expose raw Earth on which to sprinkle my intent. Creeping red thyme, sage, milkweed, lilac, lavender, clover and whatever else appeals to us—we’ve been gathering seeds for weeks, preparing to spread them in Autumn. I clear the Earth around trees I like, cut down suffocating vines and mercilessly rip up anything that dares to clutter my path. I began the work on our path a few years back after the deaths of my mother and our dog; before that, we had a 3 acre or so mass of wildlife chaos. This work I’ve done, mostly myself because of reality’s limitations in my life, has opened up our lives in extremely unpredictable ways. My spousums set up shop here long before I did and he’s been delighted finally getting to know some of the trees on this land. We’ve discovered multiple mystery trees and plants, I adore the way he’s all fired up about laying seed and tearing up weeds. I do most of the weed-tearing, but I’m honoured to do so. After decades of being unable to work this land to match his imagination because of boring but powerful and common limitations such has not having the time or money required.

The first movie I ever imagined was about a young woman who had never seen grapes; she rode a dragon with a mysterious friend and was about to lead an army against the violent destructive force of bitchy trolls. We may never know what became of that battle because I’d never finished the story, what did I know about battles? A bold child may have begun research or a wise adult may have answered questions—I was lacking in inner boldness and outer wisdom, so the story sat in a notebook that has long since joined the realm of the lost or forgotten.

Another story I imagined was about a young woman who struggled to recover after the sudden and devastating death of her best and only friend, who committed suicide one day by jumping into the Grand Canyon. She met new people and eventually may have become a fascinating adult with brilliant stories of her own. This story also joined the realm of the lost, contained in a notebook left behind at a campsite during a trip travelling halfway across the country.

These days a new story unfolds in the back of my mind, a story of my life nowadays as I explore the difference between dreams and reality. I type on my old laptop, settled in what we call ‘the Zen room’ because this is where my power is concentrated. It’s also where we keep our altar, because we have one and this is where it lives. Earlier this year, as winter warmed into spring, I spent hours of days and weeks over the course of a few months relocating my writing gear. I’d set up shop in the basement because it was cool, which it still is but the rains bring moisture that disrupts my focus and is bad for my stuff.

A famous book that I’ve never really read {but somehow totally have a copy of} comes to mind in waves, “Do What you Love and the Money Will Follow” written by someone who’s probably dead now because I’m fairly it was originally published in the 70s. I could be wrong, it makes little difference.

I do lots of things I love and no one has ever given me money for it; for a long time I was afraid that perhaps financial abundance scared me and I had crimped my receiving line. Over the years I began to reframe my thinking, which has been useful in a variety of ways. Listening to guided meditations, positive affirmations and creating mantras opened something of a peephole into this issue of mine.

Perception is, let’s say, 90% of life as we know it; how we look at our situation, whatever it is, is constantly proven to flavour our actions. Do we feel sorry for ourselves? Are we focusing on blaming someone for our situation? Do we feel as if we’re being punished for something? I began to realize that I have always felt separated from ‘the human condition’ as it were, like it was something I could choose to engage in or not. I’d be horribly embarrassed to share this insight with, say, nurses or doctors or people who work in grocery stores. When ‘essential’ people had to risk their health to face the pandemic head on, I was quite comfortable to feel labeled ‘nonessential’ to hustle and bustle of human society.

Stay tuned for the continuation