Impervious Me

I can't think of anything to write today... or maybe it's just because the weather is too nice for me to want to sit inside. Or maybe I'm lonely...

My mind starts to flip through various encounters and dinner conversations; but none of them really spark an interest. I'm unmotivated.

La di da...

I strum my fingers for a few minutes and hope that divine inspiration will hit.

Dum dee dum...

I stand up and start to inspect the dust in and around my place...maybe I should dust? Or maybe I should sit my lazy ass back in this chair and pound out a few more pages...

Sigh.

I didn't want to be a writer when I was younger -- I think I tried just about everything else: painter, dancer, singer, ultimate princess -- but the words just came to me really easily. Everyone loved my stories. It became an organic extension of who I was -- or who I was suppose to be; at some point -- should I ever make the time for it.

Dum dee dum...

I start to look around for a distraction. Consuela has the day off; so I can't bug her.

I think about all the movie ideas and episodes that float around in my head -- that I have yet to put to paper. They're held back -- ready to gush out any second; should the dam ever break...or crack.

The hardest part about being a writer is the forced internment you have to go through. The creative process can be very isolating. In order to write about one world -- you essentially have to tune out your own. Hours slip into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. The seasons flash by in an instant. All the while you remain static. At your laptop. In your pyjamas. Writing.

I think about all the people I've ever met; and how they somehow end up in one aspect or another being in my stories. It's funny how it happens. A simple conversation that you just happen to overhear one day becomes the opening scene in a movie -- or a cliffhanger right before commercial. It's amazing how I actually have room to store all this information in my head -- but I do.

I guess, each of us is more or less made, or more accurately created, to be or do something. And maybe part of the journey is recognizing that yearning in your heart to reconnect with who, or what you really are -- whatever that may be.

I'm starting to believe that my life will start to accurately reflect the dreams in my heart -- once my heart is effectively working the way it was designed to. Instead of looking to external forces to fill the gap; relationships, possessions, experiences -- I can fill the gap myself (by writing) and thus, be less needy to have the outside world validate the emptiness that was once inside me.

I'm embracing the truth of who I really am -- and believing that the universe will begin to comply, now that I've unlocked part of my own personal mystery.

So I write. Everyday. No matter what. Because it makes my heart happy. Because it is truth.

A funny thing has started to happen in doing so. As the fallacy of who I thought I was begins to fade away; I see the world more clearly. Mundane encounters become points of inspiration. Stagnant friendships have begun to breathe a new vibrancy. Relationships, and those around me, become richer.

Because, I am richer. Every day, investing in the truth of who I am -- solidifying a yearning in my heart to be, and essentially, becoming a more active participant in my own life. Ready, willing, and able to engage -- whatever the circumstance may be.

Because I'm me. Unique. Valuable. Important. Loved.

And as I take my next few steps exposed, raw, ready to relay to the world the authentic product of just who and what I am -- the insecurities disappear. I'm confident in the moments -- when they come; and when they don't. Because, regardless of where others are at on their own personal journey -- or how they chose to integrate me into their life; I will always be me. I will always have me. Steadfast. Assured of who I really am. Unfaltering.

I'm impervious.