Had another blog nicely prepared. Was all puffed up about it, too. Felt like I might be on a roll and it felt good. Seconds before I click PUBLISH, however, doubt hits. It’s not that great, really, I tell myself. Too heavy. Too normal. It’s all been said before. I close the computer. Dejected, frustration rises in my throat. It’s pushing all the puff out of me.
Once in bed, I start a new blog. It’s all trendy slang and witty barbs. Of course, it’s being scribed in my head but I’ll remember it all because it’s good. And then, it’s not. My thoughts drift. I’m tossing. Right side, left. I should get up and write some of this stuff down but I want to sleep, too. My focus goes. There’s a drip. It’s really driving me mad. Drip. Drip. One. More. Drip. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I shelve the head writing for a You Tube video that puts me to sleep..
I wake to soft chatter and the smell of eggs cooking. My stomach rolls. Wasted, featherless hens appear in my tired head. Poor things! Ugh. Have I mentioned I’m an Airbnb host? The place is advertised as a vegan home. I guess the couple that arrived yesterday didn’t read the not-so-fine print. Will have to revisit the site and be even clearer about the rules. Oh well, their penance is the drip, though it doesn’t seem to bother them. They’ve gone back to bed and are already asleep. I know because they’ve left the bedroom door open. Ugh, again.
With coffee made, I retire to my trusty couch and fire up the computer. I hope to capture the lovely phrases imagined only hours ago in the darkness. The wretched eggy smell has abated and from where I’m perched, I can’t hear the drip. An hour passes. Words float in my brain but won’t form sentences. The brilliance ushered forth in my bed is lost. Damn. But it’s okay. I’m smiling.
I love words. Putting them together so they render evocative or funny or just plain interesting tales is my challenge and one I accept unreservedly. It can be – it is – work. It is hard work and I love working hard at it. I also love calling myself a writer even if it feels like a lie. Someone said, once I publish my book that will change, but it won’t. Becoming a so-called author doesn’t mean much. Once I’m supporting myself as a writer, I’ll not feel like a fraud for calling myself one. And yet, I do love calling myself one. When I do, I stop zigzagging and begin walking straight through the drips toward Zen.
My wish is simple. May you find the straight path toward your Zen.