I'm staring at the blank page. My mind is racing between all that I want to do, and all that I need to do. And I'm overwhelmed.
Too many ideas are coming to me -- and not enough hours in the day to birth them. At least, not yet. Not to mention; I'm only human, and I do get exhausted.
Trying to find the happy medium between writing productively, and not becoming a social hermit is tough. Very tough.
The creative process is very isolating. Unless you are a writer, you probably don't understand.
Sure, there are perks; I can go to the gym whenever I want, I can sleep in, I can write on my balcony, in my pyjamas. I have no one to answer to.
And that's the problem.
I'm not accountable to anyone. Not yet. Deadlines aren't set in stone because until I get a broadcast license or have a film optioned -- I'm on my own timeline. And every minute I waste becomes an exercise in managing the anxiety that tells me "I'm not being productive enough".
Or, I'm not good enough.
Or, I'll never become what I want to be, and I'm just wasting my time.
Or...I'm crazy...
Trying to explain how painful it is to write from inside a cocoon is difficult. There is little motivation as you stare blindly into the darkness at the shell that surrounds you. You know there is a sunny, bright, and wonderful outside world -- but until your wings are formed you lack the ability to break through the shell which you are in.
And, as suffocating as it may be sometimes, you wait. Because, until the wings are there -- you're stuck. The metamorphosis isn't complete.
I stare at the blank page and allow myself a moment's reprieve from the self-doubt, the pity, and the panic. My wings aren't formed yet; and so, by default - I can not take flight.
So I type. Because the only thing that will help me grow my wings is to transition into the creature I know I'm about to become. And only then, will I have the strength to break free and take flight...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"What do you think?" I say to Consuela, when I finish reading the above passage out loud. She looks up from dusting the stereo and says, "So, yer sink yer iz some sort of butterfly, Mia?"
"Something like that..." I say. I guess she didn't really get the part about self-doubt. "Do you like it?" I ask. I want her honest opinion.
"I likes it, Mia. It's good. Evrysing yer write iz good, but I don't sink de people dey will get da butterfly, ya no?"
"Really?" I say and quickly skim over the passage again. I kinda like it. It connotes strength and determination -- two things I feel are important when it comes to tenacity. But who am I kidding? I'm asking a woman whose first language isn't English, if she likes my little blurb.
"Iz goooood, Mia. Iz good. Yer good. But next time, maybe yer should write about dat you iz like you. Not like some stoopid butterfly in some stoopid...what's dat called again?" she pauses.
"A cocoon" I say.
"Si," she says, "A cakooon".
And with that, she turns back to pledging the electronics.
Too many ideas are coming to me -- and not enough hours in the day to birth them. At least, not yet. Not to mention; I'm only human, and I do get exhausted.
Trying to find the happy medium between writing productively, and not becoming a social hermit is tough. Very tough.
The creative process is very isolating. Unless you are a writer, you probably don't understand.
Sure, there are perks; I can go to the gym whenever I want, I can sleep in, I can write on my balcony, in my pyjamas. I have no one to answer to.
And that's the problem.
I'm not accountable to anyone. Not yet. Deadlines aren't set in stone because until I get a broadcast license or have a film optioned -- I'm on my own timeline. And every minute I waste becomes an exercise in managing the anxiety that tells me "I'm not being productive enough".
Or, I'm not good enough.
Or, I'll never become what I want to be, and I'm just wasting my time.
Or...I'm crazy...
Trying to explain how painful it is to write from inside a cocoon is difficult. There is little motivation as you stare blindly into the darkness at the shell that surrounds you. You know there is a sunny, bright, and wonderful outside world -- but until your wings are formed you lack the ability to break through the shell which you are in.
And, as suffocating as it may be sometimes, you wait. Because, until the wings are there -- you're stuck. The metamorphosis isn't complete.
I stare at the blank page and allow myself a moment's reprieve from the self-doubt, the pity, and the panic. My wings aren't formed yet; and so, by default - I can not take flight.
So I type. Because the only thing that will help me grow my wings is to transition into the creature I know I'm about to become. And only then, will I have the strength to break free and take flight...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"What do you think?" I say to Consuela, when I finish reading the above passage out loud. She looks up from dusting the stereo and says, "So, yer sink yer iz some sort of butterfly, Mia?"
"Something like that..." I say. I guess she didn't really get the part about self-doubt. "Do you like it?" I ask. I want her honest opinion.
"I likes it, Mia. It's good. Evrysing yer write iz good, but I don't sink de people dey will get da butterfly, ya no?"
"Really?" I say and quickly skim over the passage again. I kinda like it. It connotes strength and determination -- two things I feel are important when it comes to tenacity. But who am I kidding? I'm asking a woman whose first language isn't English, if she likes my little blurb.
"Iz goooood, Mia. Iz good. Yer good. But next time, maybe yer should write about dat you iz like you. Not like some stoopid butterfly in some stoopid...what's dat called again?" she pauses.
"A cocoon" I say.
"Si," she says, "A cakooon".
And with that, she turns back to pledging the electronics.
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