Well, here I am, nearly a year after my last post, eager to make a change; take a step in the right direction; be productive and perhaps stop feeling as uncomfortably numb as I have, lately.
It’s amazing how good I’ve become at ignoring the things I really want to do with my life. If there was an award for ignoring your calling, I would be first up for it – guaranteed. Not that I necessarily think blogging is my calling, of course, but it’s a start.
I feel as though I’m fumbling through typing even the first few words of every sentence I write, these days. I’ve gotten a little rusty, and my creative joints feel raw and exposed, and almost as if they were grinding against each other with no hope of lubrication. Despite that highly discomforting image, I will attempt to kick myself back into high gear, and hope that there’s someone out there taking a few minutes to read the spoils of my work, rusty gears and all.
It’s a balmy twenty-six degrees here in lovely St. John’s, Newfoundland, and so what do I do? Cinephile that I am, I go and see a movie! Of course, I had ulterior motives in doing so – a good dose of salty popcorn and a couple of hours of AC on a day like this doesn’t go astray. For all the complaining about the cold that we did during our eight month winter, when the warm weather came along, we loved it for a day or two, and now it’s gotten under our skin and annoyed us into grumbling about sunburns and melting into puddles on our couches, much like I’m doing at this very moment.
Fortunately, not only did I find AC in the cinema (which is, happily, just across the street), I found a film with which I identified on a very basic level. I agree that Wanted is pretty much another guns blazing, passions (read: hormones) raging, full out gratuitously violent romp through an hour and a half; but through the blood, guts and bullet bending, there was actually a message: take control of your life, and make it your own.
Now, certainly, given my recently frustrated state of mind, this was exactly what I needed to hear. Working two jobs, while fruitful in a monetary way, is unsatisfying in pretty much every other way possible for me. I’m feeling far more pressure than usual, and though some would call me a sissy for saying this: I just don’t know if I can do it. I think I’ll likely continue to do it for the money, but the truth of the matter is that I shouldn’t have to work two jobs. I should be seizing the moment and doing what I want to do. Right?
Well, that is, if I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Crap, I thought I did!
I was sure I did.
Now, I haven’t forgotten myself, here. I still know some fundamental things about what I want to do, and at the core, I’ve never wanted to do anything more than write; write until my fingers fall off from exhaustion and I can say that I’ve written my heart out because I won’t stop until it stops beating.
I feel like that comment is a la the Marquis de Sade, Geoffrey Rush style. And no, I haven’t become a perverse old cantankerous crank who writes on her clothes with her own blood, but I sometimes think that’s something I would do if pushed to that disparaging point. Let’s just hope I don’t meet up with a Michael Caine-esque villain in my lifetime. That could make for a big mess.
References to historically inspired cinema de Sade aside, writing is it for me; writing and everything that comes with it, of course; in every form, in every way, at every time, in every place. Writing, I think, is a lifestyle. It’s something that never leaves you, and something that you’ve got to embrace, even if ideas and inspiration come to you at unGodly hours of the morning when you’re trying to get some desperately needed sleep. I would rather the sort of torture that being a writer inflicts than any other sort of torture.
Being a good writer means dealing with a significant amount of torture, an even more significant amount of reflection, and an enormous amount of time spent on one’s own, but when those things are the things you are designed for, and you have the restless romantic heart and sense of tragedian humour to light the fire in your fingers, why not sit and watch the pages blaze?
Ah! I feel better already.