(Entry below is an excerpt from a long journal entry written with a writing group on 1/14/2006)
…I realized that while meeting new people is hard at first, it must get easier with practice and it’s sort of fun, despite being so scary. Because there’s the factor of not really knowing what can happen. Maybe miraculously, a connection will be made that I didn’t expect or see coming. And the fun lies in knowing that new people know nothing about you, and really you can act any way you want and they will expect it. They won’t be surprised because you are just a stranger to them and you could be anybody. You can be a mystery or pretend for a day that you are this confident person that you know you will never be.
For once I want to write an organized, cohesive piece- like a personal essay, and have it published. Just to have my name and a slight presence out there in the literary world. But I need to organize and get the discipline for it. I need to make sense of all these notebooks full of random ramblings. It’s so much better than spending my life wondering that might have been- knowing I have all the skill and the drive and divine energy at my disposal.
It would be stupid to try not to share my thoughts/experience with others. Especially since I have the gift of observation, and I experience things profoundly. It seems almost everything touches me to my very core, no matter how mundane the actual experience. For someone who constantly worries about her future, I sure spend a lot of time living in the present, maybe even more than I knew.
I have to remember not to be scared of people. I have to remember that everyone is human and has similar insecurities, no matter how well they cover it up or act as if they don’t. I have a tendency to think that other people have this ‘life’ thing figured out in a way that I don’t yet, but it’s the way that I think, and I need to let go of it and stop feeling so inferior.
I remember having a conversation with my sister when we were little girls. She said that when she wrote she felt somehow detached from her hand and arm, like someone else was doing the writing. And I could relate to what she said. It was like some divine force controlling our hands as we wrote. And even today I feel that way though I doubt she does. Maybe we felt it as children because children are inherently more creative and less afraid to express themselves. But I remember this conversation still as an adult because it still happens to me.
The fun of writing for me comes from feeling that some other force is helping me to compose, and the words that emerge are compelling because it was not I alone who chose them. It’s like each time I write, I’m tapping into this divine energy source that exists and is simply waiting for me to unleash it. Maybe it’s the muse or the act of ‘automatic writing’ or ‘flow’ that is so often described in writing books. That energy that takes over and makes you forget about everything and absorbs you, making you unaware of time or misery or anything else.
I still feel like a child usually. Like an eager sponge just absorbing and being in awe of everything out there that the world is offering to me. I could probably spend an entire day just writing, spilling out thought after thought, idea after idea. It’s my predisposition. I feel more comfortable and at peace writing than speaking. So much of conversation and human interaction is superficial. It’s all an act. And it’s hard to be genuine unless you are sitting alone in a quiet space exploring your emotions and innermost thoughts. I should have brought a more comfortable pen for this…