Today we write. We write for freedom and for love. We write for the song that’s buried in our soul. We write for our mothers and our fathers, sisters and brothers. We write to be forced to turn off the touch pad that becomes a nuisance. We write for our aching bodies and bleeding hearts. We write because we can. We write because we’re alive.
It never felt so good to be in a place like this. Chasing a dream, ending up in a better place than you had aimed for. I look around me and all I see is love. I see manifestation of the possible. I see focus and drive. I see me.
What do you see?
It’s time for NaNoWriMo to begin in less than 24 hours. For the first time I will participate. Not only will I participate but I will throw myself into this in unimaginable ways. Ways that I cannot yet tell you about because, well, they are unimaginable.
I’m posting this mini blog for self inspiration. For a reminder of my commitment. For the thought of public humiliation as a muse for days where writing will feel like a curse. I’m also posting this for you, members of the blogiverse; readers and writers alike. What challenge can you or will you take on and conquer during the month of November? 30 days makes a habit. Let’s form new ones together.
I’ll end this one with my favorite quote from the NaNoWriMo team, “In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.”
The weight of the weather hangs heavy on my shoulders and I look to the past, the future, the place in between; always so uncomfortable, in the here and now. Sick of reading about how life is what you make it. Too many inspirational messages have become cliché by the powers of Facebook and trend-of-the-minute social media outlets. Checking in to check out. Spreading the love/hate.
Tell me one more time everything will be alright, one door closes another one opens, or my personal favorite, “everything happens for a reason”, and I’m likely to try and take my own eye out with a pencil. Only the blind survive this mass media world, spared the harsh imagery and tactical planning of the mysterious “they”.
The curve comes up on me like a crashing tidal wave and I slip, spilling my coffee on freshly pressed pleated pants. Cursing under my breath for keeping two wardrobes. For selling out. For being anything less than me. In a past life I’d be happy my old battered wreck of a ride was still intact. Today I look at my Porsche and curse it for its smooth handling. For allowing myself to daydream. Where was I before all of this?