A Hell of a Gift…
With every ending and new beginning, I feel weaker yet truer to my work and myself. I think the more honesty we drive into our books, the more we come to point where the stories are full of real life and even the fantastic constructs, upon closer inspection, reveal metaphors. I'm dwelling a lot lately on Pivotal Moments because that last novella I wrote is full of them; they're in every scene, they're the exposed muscles behind the mask, the scream or heartbreaking whimper in the night, the constant ache that never ends.
If I died right now I'd leave behind only a smidgen of what plays through my heart, and makes racket in my brain, and truths large and small that blossom in my spirit. I see my characters and in them see myself and it doesn't make me very proud. I am conflicted. If I could only love more purely, move more efficiently, learn more quickly, give more freely. But that's our lot, isn't it? To struggle; to fight ourselves; to find a way to overcome our selfishness and self-centeredness. Or we chose not to. Or we're not aware.
Pivotal moments. Endings. Beginnings. And all the space between, when our choices aren't the best ones, when we give too much and let go too easily. When do we ever learn balance? I'd like some of that. I think baggage gets in our way; our perceptions skewer worthwhile moments and leave us wanting more when we should be grateful, even elated. Society teaches us to run, run, fucking run, dive in the spotlight and keep pace, justify your actions to yourself and you can justify them to others. And I have such a problem with all that. I feel like an alien that I don't care about being in the spotlight, that I don't care about goddamn networking, that I don't take my writing seriously (I do take the stories seriously). I don't even feel like a writer yet. I feel inadequate and stupid far too often for that. I want to learn more though, and I do, because some really great people give me feedback and I read a lot. But I'm not anything special and I never will be and I'm okay with that (most of the time).
There's a little boy that occupies a tree fort in my heart and he swings from the branches and watches the world go by and so many people rushing around, growing grayer and sadder by the second, and he hurts for them because he doesn't think they're enjoying themselves, much less living. And he looks at the man I've become and sometimes he tells me point blank, I don't like you right now. You sometimes forget what matters.
Ray Bradbury said, "Find your bliss." Where is my bliss? I ache when I draw to the end of a story and I burn with fever upon starting a new one. But nothing lasts. Nothing lasts. So we have to make the most of the time we have, right? And this life is so short and we only get one chance at it.
You know how we can make it better? I know two things.
Kindness. Go be kind to someone. That's living and sharing life.
Listen to someone.
Shut up for five minutes and let someone else talk and be heard.
You're probably surrounded by people who don't think anyone can hear them, or that anyone even wants to.
I feel that way sometimes. Like I don't have anyone to listen to me. It sucks.
Do someone that kindness at least. It'll make them smile and tear away their cloak of invisibility. And that's a hell of a gift.
