>Today I wrote, and I wrote well. It helped that I processed some of my doubt with my friends last night. I told them of my recent blog- I am Not A Performer, and what happens to me each and every time I get to the page and today I began the process of birthing the head. I have been in labor for at least four long years with this book, and like a frightened mother with control issues, I didn’t want to let it g0- even though I really did. I figure once the head comes out and I am pleased with its face, the rest should slide on out with ease and become a fully formed baby, which I will be ready to share with the world. You do know I still talking about my book here, right?
I am a much better mother to real children than I am to my books. I have been so controlling with them, not giving them a lot of space and movement. I have held them still and stiff, trying to contain something that feels almost too big for me. I remember an editor telling me it is like I am trying to write the Bible. I think anytime writers talk about spiritual things, like I am doing, it feels big. The energy often feels like it is coming from some place else, the concepts seem huge and expansive and yet we have to filter it all down to a nice, pretty package of about 300 pages with chapters and sub-chapters.
I am in the puzzle phase- where I feel like I am faced with a million piece puzzle on my desk and I have to sort through each piece and make the pretty picture that is already there. Today I bounced around with the border pieces, trying to build the frame or in this case the foundation for the rest of the book.
While talking to my friends last night, I told them the thoughts that come up when I sit down to write. I watched one of them today: who do you think you are. You are not that smart, so what makes you think that you can write something so intelligent. You just aren’t worthy.
Last night when my friend Theri told me how talented I was, immediately the presence of my father sat on my left shoulder and I could not take what she said inside of me. Instead her words hovered around my outside and waited until I stopped listening to the words, apparently coming from my dad- You aren’t good enough. You aren’t special. You aren’t worthy of writing.
I love my dad. He’s great and has become a great supporter of me, yet now that I am doing what I thought I could never do, the beliefs and old energies of my childhood are coming through. But they are only small thoughts. They are not worthy of me or what I am here to do. In a sentence- they are not worth my time. And before I write each day I tell them so, and then I observe them as they fly on by trying to get my attention. But they won’t get it when I am writing.