It’s Thanksgiving. And today especially, I hope you’re full in heart and tummy, in all the best possible ways. I hope you’re surrounded by the ones you love, who perfectly love your messy, imperfect self in return. So if the Macy’s Day Parade isn’t cutting it for you or you find yourself in tryptophan-induced coma and need something to do for ten minutes, consider grabbing that pad of Grandma’s flowery stationary to your right and limitlessly putting pen to paper. Otherwise, get off the internet and love-squeeze that person sitting next to you. Give thanks!
I swim in a sea of irony, I’m certain.
When my friend Leigh asked our Red Couch Team for a creative post on Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, I replied with a hearty, Yes! Having never read the book nor obtained a copy, my insides remained chipper for the chance to belong; to be a part of something bigger than myself.
Eager for involvement and desperate for recognition, I didn’t anticipate reading a book that, at the time, found me far from actual subject matter.
You see, I’d declared September and October as “Input Only” months. I’d just had a baby: a perfect 8lb 10 ounce boisterous, bouncing boy we call Baby Brother. And babies are good and perfect little creatures–a slice of heaven’s pie, one might say–but through no fault of their own, they can wreak havoc on their mamas with their crying and their pooping and their love of eating breakfast at 3am.
So, in order to save my sanity and the sanity of those around me, I put a moratorium on producing, on writing in particular. The Next Piece of Literary Greatness via the blog and articles for submission could wait, and sermon prep for those Sundays in November would come in due time. My manuscript, the one whose book contract I surely thought I’d be waving in the air by now, could continue to simmer on the back burner … because my baby will only be a baby for so long.
Staring mindlessly at this little being, my little being, is the best writing fodder I can muster. I can stand to not keep up with The Writing Man. I can stand to let myself be.
I know, I know, I’m a broken record player of self ALL THE TIME. But there’s a point …there’s always a point. Click here to head to She Loves Magazine and read the read of the discussion post about Natalie Goldberg’s writing classic, Writing Down the Bones. And, if you end up doing a ten-minute free write, consider sharing a sentence or two below. Otherwise, is this bringing up too many repressed high school English class memories? Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Kisses!