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My thoughts about things. |
| A place to put my thoughts about various stuff. |
| Tick tock Goes the clock Counting down the minutes Asleep at eight Or stay up late It really makes no difference Sure and steady Before you’re ready The New Year will be here Regrets earned Lessons learned Leave the past in last year Start fresh Take time to rest New adventures to begin Enjoy each moment Before you know it 2025 will come to an end Here's a heartfelt good-bye to 2024 and all the best wishes for everyone in 2025. May your inkwells never run dry, and your muses always have coffee! Happy writing! |
| Why is it that sometimes we have to get to the 'bottom of the barrel', the 'end of our rope', or 'lost in the forest', (insert whatever saying you use/know here), before we finally discover inspiration? I truthfully get tired of what my family and I term the 'Rocky moment' in books and/or movies. The scene where our protagonist gets knocked down, kicked in the teeth, beaten half to death, run over by a bus, dropped off a cliff, and thrown into a volcano... then somehow miraculously makes a comeback and wins the fight/battle/competition, etc. It may seem that I exaggerated just a bit up there  , but there are some stories that feel like that is how they are told.  Then, it seems nearly impossible that they should be making the comeback. It stretches the boundaries of our belief that they could have actually have been triumphant.At worst, it makes us doubt the character. What were they just being a baby? That broken leg and busted collarbone didn't hurt them so bad if they got back up and kicked the other guy's butt, right? In fact, if you had just gotten your stuff together and kicked their butt sooner, you wouldn't have that busted collarbone! or Look, we understand that you lost your job, dog, car, and your home, but wouldn't that make you realize that you should make up with your wife/girlfriend (or husband/boyfriend) faster after that stupid fight you had? In the midst of all that upset, did you really need to punish her (or him) and yourself for so long... or could you have thought - damn, I should appreciate the good I have and go make up with them faster? When we lose faith in a character, it pulls us out of the story. It makes them two-dimensional again. As Tony Stark said - he IS Iron Man. And he was for me... right up until the third movie. Then, I wanted to pause the movie and maybe have a talk with him... or the screenwriter. Or maybe both. There is such a thing as taking it a step too far, when the reader or watcher wishes they could reverse time and not pick up the sequel. (Transformers 3, I'm looking at you, too. I didn't even watch anymore after that one. And I firmly prefer to pretend anything after 2 never happened.) At best, it makes us doubt the author. Why in the world would THAT be the best outcome, right? Well, in my estimation, I can give the author another chance. They are one individual writing many stories about many characters. One book/movie may be fantastic. Another one might suck. Sometimes, it feels more like a crapshoot on any given day. (Hey, that's a feeling I get myself when trying to write, too.) I can forgive doubting the author because they have every chance of redeeming themselves in another story with another character. Maybe the last cruddy one was because they ticked off their muse towards the ending. Or they were tired of writing the story and just wanted it to be done. Or they needed it done fast, so they could get the paycheck. Regardless, I'm willing to give the author another chance. Most of the time, at least. But the character? Nope. Once the man behind the screen is revealed, it's darned near impossible to convince me otherwise. So, inspiration... yep, that's what I made the topic of this post. And the title. Why does it take us nearly giving up (or giving up) to find our inspiration finally? I don't know to be honest, but I have a few theories. It's magic. Like two magnets of the polarity, the harder you search for inspiration, the further it runs away from you. Stop beating your head against that writer's block and go do something else. Then, when you come back, seemingly miraculously - there it is!! Sitting right on the page where you had been looking for it all along. Sheesh.  What a silly goose you were, right?It's compounding frustration skewing your perspective. Can't see the forest for the trees, can you? Well, that's because this tree isn't the right one. And that tree sounds stupid. That other tree couldn't possibility exist in this universe. You've already looked at the tree behind you. The tree in front of you is too far away. The tree to your left should be on your right and vice versa. Why are you even looking at trees? You should be looking for lamp posts. Or zebras. Or a turkey sandwich. How did you get in the desert? It's self-doubt that is making it impossible to see what is actually very real and possible. This is never going to happen. Why did I even start this in the first place? There are a million other things I should be doing right now that would be more productive. Why can't I do this faster/better/longer/shorter, etc? I've never finished one, why should I think I ever can? All the stories about all the things have already been told. Even if I get it done, no one will like it. No one will like me. It will never sell. Why am I wasting my - and more importantly - everyone else's time on this? So, finally we give up. We walk away. Put it away. Forget (or try at least) about it. Tell ourselves, we - are - done. And life goes on. We eat, sleep, go to work, take care of our homes, talk to friends, spend time with family... we live. Then, one day... BAM! Inspiration strikes. Bolt of lightning to the head. Or heart. Or feet or maybe the earlobe. To each their own. And you are overjoyed! And dismayed! Because it hit at a time where you are not able to do the thing you have been wanting to do! Writing while driving is frowned upon. Belting out those awesome lyrics in the middle of the office could get you fired. Stepping out of surgery to finally run that marathon likely isn't the best reasoning. Painting your masterpiece on the side of the house you are trying to sell isn't a very good marketing tactic. But! It happened, so you hold on to that feeling and covet it, nurture it - bookmark the elusive thing because, oh my gosh, is it hard to find. You bide your time and then... write, sing, play the instrument, run the marathon, paint the masterpiece... you do what you were meant to do. Because you've been knocked down, kicked around, thrown off a cliff, and lost your way in the forest... only to find that every tree is the right tree, depending upon how you look at it, and there are so many of them. All there for your choosing. Anytime you want. And if you choose the wrong one, then pick another. If you get lost again, don't fear it because you will find your way. You find a way to believe in yourself because - you should. You are worth believing in. You can do this. And if you stumble, it's ok. Just keep getting back up. You realize that somewhere, sometime, for someone - you are that person's inspiration. You. Have your Rocky moment... or moments. They are frustrating and sometimes, yes, they feel ridiculous. They are undoubtedly not the favorite part of your life story, but they are a very real part of your story. A very integral part of your growth and progress. Finding your inspiration, sharing your journey... that inspires others to not give up, to continue searching for their own. |
| I'm sitting here trying to come up with a great blog post when the truth is that I don't have one. It's not that I don't feel inspired. I still have lots of ideas floating around in my head. It's just that right now, I feel really tired. Everyone in the family is sick, except me. The house feels off, quiet and subdued. It's a necessary setting for everyone to get well and that's ok. Maybe, it's that I feel like we are hibernating and waiting to come back out again. So, that's what I'll do for now, I think. Just hibernate. Let those ideas percolate. Let our bodies rest and rejuvenate. All of the hustle and bustle can wait. |
| Normally, this time of year I am so cheerful that I even irritate myself a little. I love this holiday season and that hasn't changed, but the circumstances in life have in the past year and half. This time last year, I was struggling with coming to terms with my dad's death. He had drifted away due to Alzheimer's, so for years it had already felt like he was leaving us. So, his passing left one crack in my heart, but healed another. He isn't suffering from that disease any longer and for that I am eternally grateful. It's still hard to actually acknowledge inside that he's gone. It's far easier to say the words. To put on the mask and give and get hugs of sympathy. But deep inside, where the little kid part of me still lives, she's still wandering around, looking around corners and listening intently to see if he's still here somewhere. Those extra senses that I believe we all have, knows that he is here and there sometimes. He's watching over us and enjoying his respite and also moving on in his own way now. All of that at once. I also see him in our kids. The stubborn tilt of a chin. The corny joke that is told. I see a shadow of him leaning over the car my husband is working on, helping him focus and figure out the problem when he gets so frustrated. I hear him whispering to me to slow down, don't get so upset over the small stuff, and live each day as if it might be my last. This time last year, my mom was still here. She was trying to put on the best face she could to still be here with us all, but nothing was the same without her best friend and husband of 56 years. She spoke of missing things she had stopped doing since dad had gotten bad: driving, cooking, visiting people, just shopping at the store. It was the little kid in me that refused to see that she wasn't going to be here long. The signs were there. She had decided for herself a year before dad passed. She stopped taking her medicines and just let life take its course, without telling any of us. Stayed around long enough to put things in order. Their anniversary was two days before Christmas. She spent one anniversary and one Christmas without him and that was more than enough. The call that I thought would come months later came the day after Christmas. It was devastating and relieving all at the same time. Mom had been a shell of the woman she once was. Not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally. If all of us had a wound in our hearts from dad's passing, mom was missing half of hers. Ugh! I write all of this and it helps, but I also have the cynical part of me that is saying stop sounding like a broken record. I've had to mentally smack that part of myself a lot in the past year and a half. The title of this post is Optimism. That is where I want to end my entry. Life does indeed go on. No matter how painful or dreadful it may seem at the time. It marches right along and takes you with it. And the pain doesn't go away, but it does morph into something that you can live with, most of the time. The times that you can't, you take it off the shelf and lay it all out and let it wash over you again. Like the receding tide, it lessens but still ebbs over your heart. Salt water over a wound that will never completely heal. Where does the optimism come from then? From still being here. To hurt and heal and experience joy and pain over and over again. To live life. The day after Christmas is coming. Like it does every year. But very different from all of the others this year. I'll get to it - time will see to that. I'll get through it - family will see to that. And that spark of the old me, the one who had both parents still living on this Earth, she's still there. She's quieter and more humble, more serious, but still loving this season and the (hopefully) many more I have to come. 'Tis the season. Indeed, it is. |
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