I haven’t been writing lately. Oh … I’ve started several pieces. However nothing seems to be going very well. Nothing has been completed in the timely manner I wanted.
I’ll admit it’s made Me rather frustrated and unhappy.
I really enjoy writing. I find I am most at peace when I get an idea and put it into words. It is something that generally makes Me happy, sorting out thoughts, using words to paint pictures of feelings and experiences.
Therefore, when I am not writing, I don’t feel completely right and that leaves Me feeling rather out of sorts. I have learned that I don’t really like Me when that happens and I believe the fault for this usually lies within Myself.
After pondering the situation for a time, I decided that it would most likely help Me get to feeling better if I had a discussion with Myself. This is sometimes a good thing, but, then again, sometimes it isn’t. The discussions I have with Myself always tend to get a bit lively. I will admit that I am not always the most passive person when I find it necessary to have a conversation with Myself. It is usually because I find Myself unwilling to listen. It’s as though I find Myself not wanting to take responsibility for why I am not feeling good, or simply helping to get Me back on track towards being happier.
Therefore, I don’t enter into these conversations lightly. For some reason I can never seem to fathom, I always tend to make Myself a tad bit crazy. No matter how rational I try to be, listing the areas that need to be followed, I find myself balking … resisting listening to reason. It never fails I end up trying to bring the subject back up only to find myself pushing it further and further away.
When that happens, it generally falls to Me to sort out the finer points of the dialogue and bring it back into a semblance of rationality.
I won’t bore anyone with the complete details. The … ahem … discussion has been rather lengthy and time consuming, continuing on over the course of several days, making Me more than a bit distressed at times.
Bottom line, I told Myself that I was not happy with this empathy I felt Myself having towards the writing that I do.
I told Myself that not being able to write was making Me unhappy and something needed to be done … now.
I told Myself that I was holding Myself accountable for this inability and that it was time to get Myself together and get back to the business that makes Me smile.
Essentially, I argued, and bullied, and essentially painted Myself into a corner.
As you can imagine, this is never good. Whenever I find Myself painted into a corner, I find Myself lashing back.
Nope … not good at all, because in the end is it always Me that bears the brunt of it when I get Myself all worked up like that … when I try to make Myself take some responsibility.
For in the end … after I have shouted at Myself, forcing Myself to declare that I will never write again … it is up to Me … with tears in eyes and heavy heart … to plead with Myself to listen to what I am truly saying.
The writing that I do comes from deep within Myself and is ultimately written only for Me.
I had forgotten that.
The writing that I do only works to satisfy Me when I relax and allow Myself to enjoy the process … the search for the words to describe images and concepts that matter most to Me.
The writing that I do only works when I put away the deadlines that I impose upon Myself and understand that while I might require guidelines and structure for many areas of my life, I find Myself needing an atmosphere that is cozy and cheerful, a bit more loose-fitting, so to speak, for the writing to truly enfold Me and make Me feel able to convey ideas adequately.
It is only then that I find Myself writing and that is what makes Me very happy.