vast

Oh, excuse me for a minute. I have to go put on a SWEATSHIRT. A sweatshirt! Because, obviously, I am slightly chilly. And yesterday it was 90 degrees. And here I am, talking about the weather. Or rather, writing about the weather. Or rather, weather rather. Rather weather. Writer's block. Blockhead. Gumby. That is a brilliant show. Other brilliant shows: The Golden Girls, most British comedies, Sid & Marty Krofft shows, Pee Wee's Playhouse, Fraggle Rock.

Writer's Block is killing me. Actually, my lack of red blood cells is killing me. But so is my inability to write. It's not an inability per say. It's more of a disinterest. I was frequently told growing up by family and teachers that I was a great writer. That that was my "calling." I was fairly shrug-shoulders-okay-whatevs about it. It felt nice to receive attention and praise, of course. I felt like I was "doing the right thing" by writing. If I strayed from that and entertained some of my other interests, such as acting or painting, I felt like I was being disingenuous. So I just kept writing when asked or assigned. And I majored in English because, well, just because. And I just did whatever I was told la la la same old story. But once I accidentally graduated, that was that. I was "free." And terrified. I didn't know, and still don't quite know, what I wanted to do. I began asking myself the questions I should have been asking myself decades earlier. I began to realize that HOLY SHIT this is MY life and I am going to have to make the decisions that will make me happy, that will fulfill my needs because HOLY SHIT no one else will do these things for me. Where ohhhh where do I start?

I didn't start. I put it off. I put it off for a long time and instead found myself occupied with whatever distraction I could find, whether it be in the form of another person or a substance or a story. I tied heavy books and heavy relationships to myself so that I would drown in distractions and not have the oxygen to consider other possibilities, other desires. I let myself become so confused. Confusion was easier to handle than clarity; I'm still trying to find the logic behind that.

But it couldn't last. The act of avoiding my life has a lifespan of only a couple of years. The distractions began needing their own distractions. I ran out of crawl spaces; I had to start facing vast, empty rooms. Eventually the truth will emerge, it will show up and tap its foot. It won't wait any longer.

So I got quiet. I quieted down so I could listen deeply. What were my bones saying? What did my heart crave? Where did my feet long to go? I didn't know, but I was willing to discover. I am still discovering, but I have inched closer and closer these past few months to a truth, to my truth. Now the real challenge is to follow it wherever with whatever courage I can summon.

I am still a writer. I always will be. But there's more, there's more, there's more.