Writing for the Sake of Writing

Still reading and re-reading The Artist’s Way. Trying, and admittedly failing more often than not with the “writing everyday for the sake of writing” part of the process. It’s been so long since I wrote everyday. In high school it just seemed that there was no stopping me. I wrote and wrote and wrote because I literally couldn’t stop. There was meaning in everything. Every feeling was begging to be written down. I ran out of ink. I ran out of paper. I DID NOT run out of feelings! Even when you’re not popular or beautiful or involved, somehow everything seems important and worth knowing about. I wrote the word “seething” in bright red ink in my spiral bound notebook and it just took off from there. That one little word turned into a 200 page novel about what it meant to me in that moment. Or I wrote a couple lines about that night under the covers with him, just sleeping, and everyone wanted to read it.  That was over 20 years ago and I’ve made so many attempts, to no avail, in the past two decades to get something onto paper everyday. I don’t feel as passionate as I once did and that is sad. Very sad. There have been the milestones; giving birth, getting married, turning 30 and I have written about those, but in a very generic way. The feelings associated are real and wonderful and worth knowing about and remembering but they aren’t of that “raw variety” that seeps into your veins and sets fire to your way of being.  That fire that gives writer’s cramp new meaning. That’s hard because my life is what I dreamed of when I was a little girl. But those years in between being a little girl and being almost 40 are what changed and shaped the passions I grasp at now. And that’s what I’m doing… grasping. That word, grasping, stirs fevered connotations in me. I feel fevered. Fevered with the idea that I should have something to write about everyday and not just be writing for the sake of writing. This morning I have the rare ability to take a moment with my thoughts and get them down but that is hardly ever the case.  And sometimes I feel as though my mind has no thoughts. I guess that’s not possible though. Maybe the thoughts are just so chaotic and overlapping that expressing them just doesn’t seem feasible. I can write three pages this morning, but that was not the case a week ago or the week before that. I just sat there with the pen in my hand and drank my coffee and waited for something to come to me that I wanted to get on paper. Writing for the sake of writing. Writing in a nonsensical meaningless way just seems wrong. But I guess millions of writers and readers make a statement as to the validity of this exercise. So I’ll just keep pressing on!Image


About coffeeandkitties

I am a romantic in every possible sense of the word!
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