Caught up in the lists of things to do and running between the gates at 85 mph., I came to a halt yesterday. I realized that although my plan of action was well designed and great fun, my feelings for the destination have changed. Instead of a rainforest treehouse in Borneo, my initial dream goal looked like a faded 1951 postcard from Galveston. Why has it take so long to figure out?
The more philosophical among you might say that although we meander we are never truly off the path. But I gained a giant gift in the process.
For a couple of decades, I’ve felt I should write my wild and crazy story. Six months ago I organized my journals from the Ice Age and Tah-Tah wrote the first essay (chapter) of the book. Awesome. It was accepted by The Penmen Review. Success, but
There’s often a bold italicized “but“. My joy comes from writing, puzzling, piecing together..trying different textures, sounds and colors to express the visceral experience of a story. How could I vividly share my fabulous times without acknowledging the horrific parts? Pull one and you move the other. They are connected.
So let’s go one step further and imagine the hypothetical book is finished. Would I want to read it? How about traveling around to book signings and talking about it for a year or more? I can just hear it, “my mom used me to attract…” Not so much.
Yesterday, I gleefully set the memoir project
aside to make space for projects that… well….that just make me happy. I’m convinced that what needs to come out, will–either in a short story or essay.
If you have trapped yourself into a journey that needs tweaking, I hope this post will nudge you to reconsider the course. As Crescent Dragonwagon quotes to her students, “Nothing is wasted on the writer.” Good road.
(You can find Crescent on FB Crescent Dragonwagon’s Writing, Cooking, & Workshops) or here