I notice them every damn day, but today is different. Holding my gaze with mournful stares, I hear plaintive cries of “When will you finish me?” Unfortunately, “I don’t know!” is the best answer I’ve got. In fairness, their numbers are rising so they’re gaining strength. And, I get the agony. They long to be finished and sent on to their permanent home. If anyone understands that, it’s me. Today, there are seven of them, resting restlessly, these blog-fragments taunt me like migrants in a holding area. This one, should it not reach its end, would make it eight so I’m sending out a wee prayer that I can wrap it up.
Writer’s block is an interesting phenomenon. I’ve read about it and watched movies that explore it, but I’ve not really ever experienced it. There was always something to write about before. These current doldrums are sucking the life out of me. I need some air!
When young and preposterously bold, I fancied myself an exceptional wordsmith, artiste, and trendsetting bon vivant. An eager storyteller, I could often be found addressing a group of listeners who hung on my every word. Mind, these tales were always funny eliciting snorts and belly laughs in the telling. I was on a roll, it seemed, until one day, (I can’t recall the exact one) when I abruptly morphed into a narrator who was more Eeyore than Elaine May, and my fans disappeared faster than you could say “Pooh Corner”.
Thinking about that girl, the one who oozed ideas and vitality, is making me miss her terribly. She was audacious, charismatic, if a bit reckless. She was a true dreamer, an unfettered believer who knew without doubt that free spirits were the best kind. She was also filled with stories. Even after her voice changed there were still lots of funny and fantastical tales to be told, some were just tragic, that’s all. What I wouldn’t give to find her after all these decades. I’d give her a big, sloppy hug, tell her to talk up a whirlwind and I’ll be her scribe.
Do you have a girl like her in you? Are you brave enough to look for her, get dirty shovelling away all the debris she’s buried under? Do you have the courage to let her be her authentic self?
It’s a sad thing, the loss of dreams. Hoping to restore them late in life might seem ludicrous – too hard a job to tackle; but, if you take yourself back into the anticipation and excitement inspired by youthful fearlessness, does your heart leap in your chest? If so, just maybe those feelings are worth reclaiming.
My wish today could be compared to a layer cake – a beautiful, scrumptious creation that starts simply and evolves gradually. It is a process. Looking for the lost bits of you is how the process begins. First, you have to want to look, then you begin the search. After you have found the most colourful, sweet morsels, you assemble them, sandwich them into a tower of goodness before finishing with the icing. Doesn’t it feel heavenly to think of yourself as such a thing, miraculously assembled and covered in enticing perfection? Hey, that’s what you’ve been all along. What’s better is that nothing is ever lost and that cake (or those stories) is ready for the making.