Yesterday I wrote about motivation – and my lack of it – but this week has not been an entire write-off for me.
Yes, pun intended.
I spent yesterday at work (of course) and I did some soul searching in between counting pens and batting my eyelashes at couriers so I wouldn’t have to carry the numerous heavy boxes to their designated places (it works). Before I digress with the pros and cons of soul searching while separating ball points from felt tips, I would like to acknowledge something that happened to me this week that seemed to escape me when I sank into melancholic apathy and self-pity.
I experienced complete euphoria and the deepest, most amazing passion was sparked within my soul.
A friend informed me he “needs a writer”. When I later told my mother she looked at me and said “Are you a writer?” … and to borrow Joyce’s words: “yes I said yes”. Punctuation had no place in my excited babblings when I met this wonderful man or relayed the conversation to anyone who would listen afterward. He made me feel like everything was going to not just be OK but wonderful. We talked words, theatre, music, language, ideas … and if he turns around tomorrow and says “I found someone else” I won’t care; in thirty minutes he gave me passion, determination, and a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever before had. How do you thank someone for giving you breath? Life? Love? Passion?
It is in my nature – oh yes, it is – to sink and slump and hate the world. However it is also in my nature to laugh and be inspired and love everything. There are two people battling for attention and I sway from one to the other. Somewhere along the way I became a cynic. Somewhere along the way I stopped believing in love and dreams and beauty, even though there was a part of me that held on to these as a child might hold on to Santa – not for believing but for fear the presents might decrease. Oh yes, we are greedy, manipulative beings when we want to be.
I am not the girl I was at sixteen. At sixteen, I surrounded myself with inspirational quotes and told myself that whatever I wanted to be I would become – largely supported by my friends and family in this belief, it never occured to me that, at twenty six, I would feel the way I feel.
How do I feel?
I have moments when I wish the world would hurry up and end so I don’t have to deal with life anymore.
I have moments when I turn my face to the mist of rain hanging in the air and feel truly alive, deaf to the traffic that passes and the sirens that blare.
I have moments when I can’t see a point to anything and contemplate going back to teaching because it’s the “easy way out” of struggling to establish a new career from the bottom-up.
I have moments when I feel like the world is standing still, waiting for me to do something bold and passionate to keep it turning.
I don’t want to keep being two people: the cynic and the optimist cannot co-exist within me, because both exhaust me with their cries for attention. I have to make a choice … and the cynic-Stef will scoff if I choose the optimist-Stef, because it’s far easier to be negative than positive. And I am the hardest judge of myself. Aren’t we all?
This week I fell in love with writing, but I forgot that romance when I let my inner voice convince me it was pointless, hopeless, and never going to work. I am reminding myself that romance can be like that – my relationship with writing has been turbulent: we’ve taken breaks, we’ve seen other “people”, we’ve had passionate nights and angry days, but we’re still together. Writing is patient with me … I simply need the confidence to give writing as much as it gives me. I need to be patient with writing, to let it blossom as it needs rather than forcing it to do what I want, when I want. These are recurring themes in my relationships, but that’s another post.
For today, writing and I are going to have a serious discussion about our future together. And I think we’re both optimistic.
How is your relationship with writing?