Defining writers and writing

This question was posed to me on Facebook the other day and I thought I’d start off 2011 by posting it to you:

“Writing is not for people who…”

Of course this is subjective and there is no right or wrong answer. This is an open-ended question — my favourite kind. You can have a lot of fun with open-ended questions because they don’t pin you down into an either/or answer. You can simply explore… YOU.

I’m wondering what you might recognize about yourself as a writer after you have answered this. Perhaps you don’t even consider yourself to be a writer. Your thoughts (and I’m sure there will be many) will tell you a lot about what is important to you about writing and what challenges writing offers you.

Not only your answer will tell you something; the attitude behind the answer holds so much more. Notice how you feel about this question. Is there resistance? Thoughtfulness? Sarcasm? Humour? Joyfulness?

Do you like the answer you received? Or do you not? And perhaps even… what story have you made up and do you really believe it?

And finally, what do you think about this?:

“Writing is for people who…”

What is the difference in how this question is posed?

Let’s talk….

Photo Credit: Flo-ry

Breathing into Shades of Crimson

One breath.

The journal.

Start somewhere.

I am full. Thoughts cascade through space, refreshing it like a rain shower.

Writing fills up space and yet, empties space.

Write something that doesn’t have to grow up and be anything in particular.

Write it like an old letter, faded, rough around the edges, shades of yellow, torn edges and crinkly spots.

Writing through Crimson Spaces

One breath.

Though, I don’t dare breathe for fear of making a sound.

Mesmerized by the sound of wind in the trees. I hold my breath, listening.

Peaceful and writing forward through space.

The day’s activities have settled and faded from my mind like a silvery white airplane trail across the sky; I have travelled through space.

The mind reaches outside of myself, empties into the space, touching the room, reaching. Filling the space.

The space reaches back towards me. I listen. Ears ringing as my inner and outer space mingle.

It tingles, electric. In and out.

My breath. The space. In and out.

The wind through the window, rendered me writing. Bringing the space into being.

Turning Shades of Crimson

Over the past month, thanks to Barbara Swafford of Blogging Without a Blog, Wendi Kelly of Sirius Graphix and John Hoff of WP Blog Host, I’ve been well supported in redirecting the focus of my business. Narrowing the focus.

Another person I’d like to mention is my friend and colleague Ian Johnson. We’ve been working together, studying and practicing David Grove’s system of Symbolic Modelling and The Power of Six. Ian brings an immense amount of wisdom and authenticity to the table. He has been incredibly supportive and encouraging.

The services of Writer Sense Communications (proofreading and editing) and Crimson Compass Life Coaching will be merging into Shades of Crimson. This life coach will be coaching writers and those other creative types. Connecting with what is inside that wants to be expressed and noticing what is outside wanting to be let in.

We’ll be coaching the “space”; not the writing. The writing writes in the space of listening to the space and translating the space. Too spacey? Good :-) Cause we’ll also be stepping (or skipping) into clarity of intention. Encouraging, or in my words, rendering the creativity from the inside out and the outside in.

Coaching creativity with Shades of Crimson is rendering the write impact. Proofing and editing makes the best of the best.

I explained to Barbara:

“The common theme with the coaching/writing and the proofing (for me), is that it’s a gradual process and there is an art to it. And with my career background I’ve developed a healthy respect for the ‘process’ and each stage of the process; from brainstorming to the design concept to the writing, editing, proofing and final product. I love how each phase supports the other.

I love what the word rendering does for this. It represents the gradual process that goes into proofreading, writing and coaching. It’s about translating a message, generating an image, a flair for creativity, etc. Plus… rendering —> different ‘shades’ of crimson (or steps in the process).

The word impact is also strong because we all want to make an impact, and a writer definitely wants their words to make the ‘write impact’. Plus ‘impact’ packs a punch as the colour crimson suggests.”

What lies ahead? Coaching creativity. Adventures in ‘the’ space.

Blogging about the space. How we interact with the space. How we influence each other.

Blogging about bringing “the space” into our world. It wants to be written. Drawn. Painted. Photographed.

Blogging about process. The start. The exploration and discovery. The finish.

One breath.

Start somewhere.

Photo Credit: The Trial

And I don’t know why

I’m sitting here in a quandary at the keyboard tonight — a writer who feels like she “should” have a message to write on her blog. A writer who loves to write but who feels disconnected from what she has known to be writing. Something has changed.

The joy of writing has become lost to routine, boxed and buried in expectation — mine. I feel robbed. Frustrated. Angry. Empty. Uninspired. And I don’t know why. All I know is this is where I have landed. And I don’t like it! But I can’t deny it either.

Resisting this is futile. I consider writing a how-to post or a list post, or a link post, or, or, or… even a poem, yet nothing sticks. Picture a rat in a maze. Each road I take leads nowhere and I’m unable to find the way out. Even stranger? I don’t want to find the way out. And I don’t know why. And there are tears about not knowing why because I “should” know why.

There is a sinking feeling inside and I feel powerless to change it. I listen to the whirring of my computer and the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard. I feel mechanical, myself. Tap, tap, tap… space… return. Return… return to where?

I imagine looking down at my feet, willing them to move forward. I can’t take a step. Not even one. I don’t want to leave who I thought I was any farther behind. But I don’t remember who that was anymore. I try.

Shift happens

I can’t pretend everything is as it was, because it isn’t. The toughest part about change is allowing it and accepting it. It is impossible not to change. The minutes pass. The days, the weeks and the years. The sun rises and sets. We change like the seasons and whether we notice it or not, life impacts us.

Obviously we see changes in the mirror. And we can look back over the years and see how we have changed; our interests, perspectives, choice of profession, friends, hobbies, etc.

In this case, I’m referring to the unseen changes — those mysterious passions that sweep in and carry us off to new adventures, different choices and different ways of being… without trying. In simpler terms, you wake up one day and suddenly you like the taste of spinach! And you don’t know why.

We wake up to new ways of being without trying. It just happens. This can emerge over a period of years. Sometimes it can sneak up on us rather suddenly.

What I’ve realized now (while writing this post) is that this new way of being not about losing or leaving a part of ourselves behind at all. It is about bringing more of us forward and the discomfort is from the uncertainty as to how to be with what is new, and how others will be with what is new.

The discomfort also comes from trying to be who or what we think other people want us to be, so they won’t abandon us. In all reality, stuffing yourself into that same old box year after year is abandoning yourself. That thought gives me a sinking feeling.

Photo credit: Free Wine

Poetry in Motion

The treehouse
My treehouse is built in an apple tree.
Birds sit on the roof and sing in glee.
It is a happy place to be.
Sometimes I sit there for hours and hours,
Making a chain of daisy flowers.
When autumn comes the cold winds blow,
Telling me that they bring snow.
Then over the hayfields, home I run,
Through the daisies and the setting sun.
–Jan 27, 1976

This is a poem I wrote when I was 12 years old. I love that 12-year-old. She was a dreamy, imaginative little girl. And guess what? I still am. That part of me never grew up and I’m glad.

That dreamy place is home. The treehouse that I dream of is where I would sleep at night; where I could go for comfort when feeling lost or frustrated. It is where I can go when I feel happy too. It is always there. Sometimes though, I forget… until I see a sunset like you see in the picture above.

Sitting with possibilities

This picture takes me away. There is an incredible sense of movement in this sky — a surrender to connection. It makes me feel that when and where heaven and earth meet anything is possible. Anything.

I was out walking the other day and my mathematical brain kicked in — a rarity for me. I found myself pondering that where heaven and earth meet, is where we stand. And from the vantage point of where we are standing we are in the centre of a circle — always. Think about it. We are the seed.

The best part about believing that anything is possible, is not having to prove or understand any of it. Just sitting with the possibilities is enough for me. My imagination runs wild and I am quite happy to oblige.

That day I also found myself thinking that I don’t always have to have everything I dream about. What a relief. Dreams not tainted with expectation or possible disappointment.

With no attachment to the dream the possibilities expand the experience. The circle grows. I felt how this tempts us to wander outside of what we know and dream about what could be.

The dream continues to grow and evolve as we do… uncaptured. It’s like appreciating the rainbow without having to own it or control it. Just being with it while knowing that it is not forever. But also knowing that there will be another.

Some dreams I am content to hold in my imagination; to be content to just visit them… or let them visit me.

To build a treehouse and sleep in it overnight has been a dream of mine for over 30 years. I suspect that if I had built that treehouse over 30 years ago, I would have enjoyed it, yes. But that time would have passed. The tree house would have become weathered and after all this time it may no longer exist.

But living with the possibility of this dream still gives me the thrill I imagine I would have while climbing up that ladder for the first time. I can have this every time I think about it. It never grows old, like a poem… it is timeless. Telling a story, bringing light. Always with rhythm and in motion.

This concept excites me. What about you?

Is there a dream that you could have but are content to keep dreaming about?

Photo credit: Xanetia

A window of creativity interrupted

Before 7 a.m. morning birds are calling. There’s a special quality about this time. Reminiscent of freshly fallen snow, waiting for that first trail of footprints to cultivate an impression.

Alive with appreciation, awareness is keen and the senses are engaged. The pen is poised over the page, alert with pronounced posture. Ready.

Then, noise cuts a path through the stillness and the creative whispers disperse. Now distracted from my journal, I watch a driver spray Windex on his windshield.

He just pulled over and stopped, got out and left the engine running. He’s wiping the windshield while holding a cigarette in his other hand. The morning air has become tainted with exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke.

Soon his passenger arrives and he drives away noisily, leaving me in a wake of dusty judgments. “People are so unaware of the noise they create; they barrel through their day like a freight train.”

Happy the silence is back, I return to journalling. I notice the sun now casts a shadow across the page from where the tip of the pen touches it. Scrawling, pushing forward, I try to break free of the shadows. They follow the pen.

The muse is waiting

Feeling virtuous for being here this morning at this time, yet the writing reflects no virtuosity. Inspiration interrupted and dead to appreciation, I’m awash with writer’s block.

Discontentment creates unwelcome impressions on the snowy white page before me. Polluted thoughts cast shadows over inspiration.

Noise had again cut a path through the morning stillness. This time it was my noise; all in my head.

I was barreling through my thoughts, not respecting the space. Just like people barrel through their day making noise, closing doors harder than necessary, stomping down the stairs and dragging their feet.

Here I was in a sense, doing the same; a writer barreling through my thoughts with entitled expectation.

While smoking the wasted stillness my exhausted thoughts shimmered. Idle thoughts and scribbling, with the door closed and a dusty window, I too was waiting for my passenger — the muse.

And the muse? The muse was waiting with the door open and the engine idling. Waiting for me to just get in and go. Ready?

Are you riding with your muse today?

If not, what is stopping you?

Photo Credit: Pwray

A writer who blogs

The Morning Muse is a new feature I’m offering on this blog.

When I first started blogging I was delightfully immersed in the process of writing. Then I got serious and shifted my focus to writing for business. I’ve still enjoyed the writing but something has been missing.

On my previous blog Loving Pulse, my first two posts were The Eye of the Storm and The Fire’s Dance. The image I used for The Fire’s Dance is a photo I took of a wall hanging in my living room, and my avatar is cropped from that photo.

I was moved while writing those two posts. Promoting my business was not the motive.

A renewed connection

Somewhere along the way, in my efforts to promote life coaching and editing, I lost something.

I lost the connection with what fills me up — writing just for the sake of writing. Writing to see what message is there. These messages move me and inspire me beyond comprehension. They remind me that I AM connected. I am not alone.

The words that flow from my Self are inspired from somewhere that I don’t fully understand and my life feels empty when I deny this experience.

After a coaching call last night I committed to write each morning this week for just 10 minutes. I’ve been so distracted with business and my fear of survival, that this activity keeps falling through the cracks. I’ve indeed been running on empty.

My coach is holding me accountable for my writing because that is what I do. I’m a writer. It is as natural to me as walking and breathing. It’s not about skill, or grammar, or punctuation… or SEO for crying out loud! It’s not about ego. It’s about connection. It’s about expression. It’s about sharing a message.

When I’m writing from that mystical place, I feel appreciation and compassion. I wrote the following entry this morning and although my goal was to write for 10 minutes, I ended up writing for almost a half hour. I have made some minor edits to this but for the most part, it is as I wrote in my journal this morning.

I won’t post each entry I write, because my intention is to maintain a posting schedule of once or twice a week. This first entry is dedicated to my life coach Ciel.

Moving beyond the emptiness

My days are filled with emptiness. What a contradiction. Filled up on empty.

Here’s an afterthought… when you’re running on empty, there can’t be much fuel can there? And that’s gotta keep a person stuck in one place. With no fuel, you’re not gonna get very far.

What is contained in this emptiness that fills my days? Fear. Anger. Self-doubt. But if emptiness is just space, and if my days are filled with these things but yet empty, then these things must not be real. They are illusions.

My days have been invested in fear, anger and self-doubt — that’s where my attention has been. I’ve been listening to the illusion. Letting it define me. It’s nothing so I’m nothing.

I am denying what is already here. How can my days be empty if I’m in them?

Instead of reaching into space… into emptiness, (there is nothing to grab onto there anyway), why not stop looking beyond myself? Beyond Self can’t be defined. The intellect can’t go beyond Self.

I’ll be better off looking at what is here now. What IS here now? I’m living and breathing. My mind is allowing the space to envelop both of us. I’m writing. Words are flowing from this space.

I’m awake. This is sacred time. I’m not trying to fill it, I’m letting it fill me. It flows through me.

There really is nothing else but Self and Time, unfolding together. Discovering each other. There is a certain rhythm in allowing the Self to be present. Heard. Seen. Felt. Spoken.

When the Self is present, emptiness rests.

Why do you write?

What fills your space?

Photo credit: Anosmia’s Photostream