I long to write. I long for it every minute that Iím not, yet when I get the opportunity, I often donít know what to say, or maybe itís more appropriate to say that I donít know where to begin.
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I awoke before Allison this morning. Iím sitting alone in the living room looking out into the cool bright morning. Itís so pretty, so alive. The dog wanders about in the back yard, her collar jingling with each step. The cat sits before me and stalks birds from inside the screen door, occasionally casting a look my way that begs to be released.
Iím learning that writing is a very solitary thing. You almost, by default, have to be alone. You canít write while watching TV or while others carry on conversations. Unfortunately you canít write while participating life. Itís an observational activity, not a participational one. I feel caught at times pulled between the need to write and the desire to participate.
I asked my professor about that ďneedĒ to write and he knew of what I spoke. He told me you have to find the time to be alone to write, you have to make the time. Often you end up lying to friends and family because they are unable to understand your base need.
ďYou want to stay home and write? Why?Ē
Itís easier to tell them youíre sick.
I would stay up late and write, but I get so tired my head falls onto the keyboard, or bonks the table. I am so busy, so very busy. Even those that know and love you can become very irritated as you move off, as you separate to make passionate and secret love to the words. A love so strong that it pulls you away from them. Again the need for solitarity raises its head. Itís why at times I long to be alone, for at least an hour or two every day. It seems that everyone would be alone for at least an hour a day, but Iím not. I rise alone and dress for work, drink a quick cup of coffee and run to work. At work I am surrounded by too many people with too many problems. After work I run home, eat with my family, enjoy whatís left of the day and vegetate in front of the TV with them.
That TV time would be good to write, but it would leave Allison alone. She asks me what I write about, she reads it sometimes, but rarely does she see any value in it. I think she fears itís just an excuse to not be with her. She doesnít understand that the passion to write is beyond explanation.
I think more and more about doing whatever it is that I know I should be doing. I feel all the time like Iím getting closer to my purpose. If I could convince and show another person that they have the power to change their own life for the better, and they actually do. I will have done what I need to. If I can do the same for 5 or 10 or 100, I will be self actualized. It really is far too simple. Itís all so simple. I do need to become organized though and that frightens me a bit. You see if I actually work to coordinate and organize my thoughts on this into an outline or some path that I can constructively follow then I will actually end up moving down that road, and that is exciting and terrifying all at the same time. I guess making that realization means itís time to actually do it.