Trial Run

I took some time off from work to see what it would be like – to just write, see where a test run would take me.  After I navigated the machinations of the

escape, turned off all the beeps and rings and reminders (mostly) I was alone with only myself to contend with, for two whole weeks.  Now that I am sitting here on my last depressing day before I have to go turn myself in again, looking back, I would have to say this little experiment was a quasi-success.  Unexpected things occurred – a surprise visit from the ‘out of towners’; family and friend visits, both planned and ambushed; an emergency room trip for a family member – you know, the little things. 

I did write though.  I wasn’t perfect, didn’t achieve that ideal of up every day at 5:00 a.m., writing to the exclusion of everything else.  But I set goals, kept

them for the most part, checked off some steps on that outline.  Still, in a really baffling turn of events, I feel like I somehow wrote myself into a corner.  For everything else that abysmal day job is, where it really shines is in its wonderful capacity to be the scapegoat; the ultimate airtight, unshakable excuse ever.  ‘Poor me – I just don’t have the time to write, I’m so enslaved after all.’  What I was forced to face by doing this little experiment was that writing still scares the crap out of me. 

I fairly easily accomplished the mechanical steps in my outlining, even completed the expanded plot synopsis, albeit less easily.  I organized all of my notes, coded them, cut them all out, put them up on my board in satisfying order, dove into more research, forced myself to stay in the seat for some time

every day.  Then – it was time.  Time to build from those bits and pieces and start stitching the whole thing together.  Boy did that seat get uncomfortable and suddenly there were SO many things to attend to.  My dirty house, the deplorable adherence to exercise, my dying garden.  All of it suddenly needed to be done right now.  Even my impressive denial system couldn’t avoid that abrupt and obvious stall. 

I have this really annoying habit of calling myself on my unconscious shit before I ever realize what’s even lurking there in those scary depths.  I set myself up,

time and again, force myself into showdowns, put up or shut up.  Tough love.  Let’s hope it’s love anyway – maybe I’m just a masochistic saboteur.  But this time off was in fact a set-up.  ‘You wanted time?  Well here it is.  Now whattya gonna do about it?’ 

Why, why, why is it so very punishing to write?  Why?  How can two of the strongest forces within me be polar opposites?  It seems so self-evident that if something feels that aversive, you avoid it.  If it feels that intimidating then it is obviously something negative, dangerous even

– all of your warning bells are telling you so.  Ok – I’m with you so far.  But then why do I passionately want that thing as well?  Why have I built my entire ‘self’ around the very concept, taken it as my identity, my meaning, my path?  How can opposite core drives simultaneously be true?  I intellectually know there are reasons for the dynamic – learning, reinforcement principles – but my logic centers can’t quite get over it. 

I want the joy of the flow of writing, to look forward to sitting at my desk in front of the window – the work being its own reinforcement, feeding on itself. 

And sometimes it does.  On a good day, I can touch it - it’s not just a wild myth I’m chasing.  I know I just need to keep moving, load up my resources and reinforcement more and more until it forces the see-saw to tip over to this side,

leaving the negative still over there, but unable to push its fat butt back down into my business to leave me dangling in the air again, helpless.  My instincts are right – I do need to keep forcing myself into those corners where I can’t squirm away.

I remember a story about my grandmother, my dad’s mother, for whom I’m named.  She was a full blooded Irish girl; strong, passionate, quick to opinion and apparently not shy to share it.  As the story goes, she was sweeping the front porch when a wicked

West Virginia windstorm came up.  She didn’t retreat inside and patiently wait for the storm to recede.  No.  She had already put a lot of work into sweeping the porch; had planned this chore for that moment and it just wasn’t negotiable.  Therefore, the wind was the enemy, keeping her from completing her goal.  How dare it?  She kept sweeping.  The wind kept blowing, depositing more dirt before she could even finish a swipe.  As her family looked on from inside, she began talking to, then yelling at, the wind.  Women didn’t really curse like that back then.  She threw the broom, not into, but at the wind, striking it, beating it back.  And she never stopped what she was doing.  She swept throughout that storm, only able to finish once it receded.  But finish she did, on her own terms.  Logical?  No way.  Efficient?  Nah.  But she was willing to pay her own exacted price to herself and continue.  Because.  Because no wind was going to dictate to her.   

Who am I to deny my legacy?  I’ll keep going too, regardless.  I’ll do it the hard way if I have to, if I want to.  But I’ll do it.  My own internal tempest is not going to get in my way.  I have my broom handy.