storm stayed stay

There is something so lovely about being storm-stayed.

As children we long for storm days (only on school days of course) and even as adults we find ourselves saying that little wish before we go to bed the night before.

It provides that permission we don't often afford ourselves, that allowance to just do nothing. Or at least, not be held to any obligations. An official No Pants Day.  

Since before this day saw light, the Atlantic region has been getting the weather that was promised. A winter storm with icy breath sharing its snow and rain in many different forms. 

We Maritimers take our weather seriously.

The day before a storm always sees line ups at grocery and liquor stores. Many times the storms don't amount to much as the ocean can cause the forecast to change, but no one wants to take the risk of being storm-stayed without the essentials. 

I am cozy.

I'm sitting in a cottage by the ocean watching the storm hit the sea and the sea throw it back. Inside, the smell of the wood fire mixes with the aroma of simmering corn chowder and freshly ground coffee. CBC fills the air with classical music in the day and jazz in the night. 

Not a bad way to spend a stormy weekend. It was my hope to get stranded here, to use this as a writer's retreat. 

Sure I have solitude in my city apartment, but for some reason I feel more like a writer out here. I am definitely more inspired. At home there are always distractions- I should clean this, rearrange that.

But here, inspired by nature's ocean and elements, I find I can get more done.
Don't get me wrong, I love my little desk in the city, overlooking the downtown street, but a change of scenery is always good to reboost the creative process. 

always take the plunge

Yesterday I sat on the shore and watched a woman standing in the water.

I had already been in. It was great.
But taking the plunge is always the hardest part.

As a frequent swimmer in the North Atlantic,  I prefer to dive right in, instead of standing and shivering. But as I sat drying off on the beach, I watched the woman stand and shiver, and I wanted to yell "Go ahead, it will be great once you're in"

I was reminded of a quote by Goethe
"Plunge boldly into the thick of life, and seize it where you will, it is always interesting. "
and suddenly this woman became a metaphor for Capital L Life.

But I didn't shout out.
Instead, I took her picture

idle no more

I haven't written in a while.
Nothing.
Nothing physical anyway. 

Every so often.. well, actually, very often, I write in my head. I compose and compile and compartmentalize. It's just a matter of getting it down.
But I don't get it down.
I am not down with getting it down.
I know it is bad when I procrastinate more on writing than I do on cleaning. In fact, I have been organizing my home more to avoid sitting down and making a commitment to a short story, a chapter.. hell, even a blog entry.

And therein lies the rub. Ish.
I have so many options, I can't decide on which one. I can't determine to which voice I should listen, and then give its own new voice.

It's the same way with too many choices on a menu.
No matter how hungry I am, if there are too many options, I have seen myself just leave.
And with writing, I will do the mindless equivalent ; sometimes I just play Candy Crush.
Or I used to play Candy Crush. Until I found out how much they track their players and it freaked me out and I deleted the game.
But I digress.

How my mind works. (It is also my habit to edit photo's I've taken so as to avoid writing.

 )

The point is no one's voice is being heard. Outside of my head, that is.
Oh I hear them. I hear them plenty. I see them as well.
They stare at me, speaking with their eyes
I am like the kid in the sixth sense who sees dead people.
Only I see fully formed unborn people, or pieces of people all stitched together to make a whole new one. I see these vehicles for stories and situations that need to come out and yet they sit, like a car idling in the garage.
It makes me want to go to sleep.

diversity or split personality disorder?

Diversify-

(Verb)

1. Make or become more diverse or varied.
2. (of a company) Enlarge or vary its range of products or field of operation.

In my line of work, I have found it necessary to diversify. It has enabled me to stay in the business and contribute in many ways. But it can also be a double edged sword.

Being diverse, able to do many jobs, can sometimes leave you with a feeling of having a split-personality disorder.
While it is good to have skills to tap into the well when other areas are dry,  it can make it difficult to focus when it comes to feeding your own creative soul.

My apartment looks like a clutter of unfinished projects.
Paintings, sketches, many scraps of paper with writing, musical instruments, a desk in desperate need of a clean-off...
I wander from room to room, wearing different hats. Sadly not one of them belongs to a housekeeper.

my apartment resembles my brain

Right now I am in writer mode.
Or at least, I'm trying to be.
There is a book of short stories pressing to be finished. 
Like a person with a split-personality disorder, I want all the alters to be quiet, and let this personality emerge. It is not easy to have this control. It comes and goes in fits of inspiration. But to take on the writer personality, I must think like one. Be one. Believe I am one. It's a small part to the process, but an important one nonetheless. And not as easy as it sounds, especially when all those other voices want to be heard.

Perhaps this diversifying has made me a bit afraid of labels and titles.
I feel  somehow fraudulent in saying I am a writer, simply because I do not write exclusively. True, I have published articles in magazines, newspapers and online, but claiming to be a writer seems to diminish those who have made it their life's work.

Writing has always been in me.
Since I could put pencil to scribbler, I had stories.
Verses, prose, commentary- I kept them all hidden, as the secretive Scorpio child that I was.
In high school, to combat my  record of skipping classes, my English teacher gave me the opportunity to make extra credit by turning in creative writing. The name Margaret Young will forever be held like a beacon of light in my eyes and heart and mind. I was blessed to have had her in the 10th and 12th grades.
She also introduced me to Sylvia Plath (my birthday-twin), Margaret Atwood, Margaret Lawrence, Leonard Cohen, Dylan Thomas (my other birthday twin), as well as the old guard, Shakespeare, Keats, Chaucer, Austin, Bronte.
Of reading and writing and 'rithmatic, reading and writing were never a problem.

Now I sit, trying to channel those who came before, those for whom writing became an obsession, an eaux de vie.
I focus on the keyboard and the screen, trying not to let my gaze wander over the the unfinished painting in the corner, or the folder of photographs that need to be edited or the emails that should be addressed.
I will not look at the clock and think of all the other things that should be done. Right now, I try to be less diverse.
I will think only of characters and word counts and a beginning, middle and ending.

After all, this is what writers do.
And I am a writer.

That's right. I said it.

go blog yourself

Someone asked me recently if I blogged. My immediate response was "Yes" followed by ".. um.. well.. I mean, I have blogged.. I have a blog.. I blog but I haven't really been blogging much lately..." The word Blog became a bit of a swear word.
Oh Blog.
Bloggity Blog Blog.
Bloggots.

It is not that I have a lack of ideas. Oh no, there are many snippets and drafts saved, many scraps of lines in files. I have no trouble producing the pieces. It's the threading it together that is the difficult part. 

I find I need to be inspired. And so I wait for inspiration to hit me; wait for the Muse. It is not elusive, she comes quite often in fact. But I never know how long a visit from that flighty sprite will last.
Try as I might the discipline to write when not in the mood escapes me. And yet I know it is something for which I should strive, plug regardless.
What would Plath do? Or Woolf?
They would force themselves.
They would be happily consumed.

Perhaps it's not inspiration, but focus that I need; the ability to concentrate without wandering off and following every shiny speck of dust that floats it's way into my peripheral vision.

How can I finish a writing a book if I can't finish writing a blog post?

Oh Blog.
Blog Off.