I didn't ask to be a writer, It's a craft of obsessions, one that's marred in constant self-criticism, self-doubt and perfectionism. While reworking all my content, my only wish, is that I'd done this sooner and that's frustrating, you know? Annoying, actually.
I can see that shimmer of something great, but it just doesn't hit the mark. I almost feel like I've neglected my craft. I failed to give myself selflessly to it this summer and now my writing has suffered as a consequence. But then, would my writing be any good if I had not tried every experience that was open to me? Who knows?
All I know is that as Autumn begins, I'm reminded that this it is a time for creativity to flourish. It is a time for rest after the abundant restlessness of summer, and a period for self-reflection and spiritual healing. A chance to practice inner healing and to create from your inner wisdom. Another year of unknowing.
As a writer I am inclined to go into hermit mode during this season. I get out the cosy blankets and brainstorm new book ideas. My mind explodes with colours that are so delicately placed in harmony, as if a painter is working from a colour wheel.
I find it a little overwhelming sometimes, so I love to wrap up warm with a scarf around my neck and wander through the leaves when it gets too much. Always protect your Aura.
I feel at peace as Autumn begins. Not restless or blue, but content and grateful for the chance I've got to work harder on writing. I may not understand all the experiences yet, but I trust in my divine path that stretches out in front of me, scattered with maple leaves. Maybe all of them will make good poetry.
Right now I feel like hibernating and indulging on my burning desire to work on my craft. Protection is a beautiful thing. "Burn away the feelings of inadequacy this Autumn." Then I lift my pen to the page.
Written in Ink
Being a writer is a difficult profession.
And you usually have to do a bunch of jobs,
To make ends meet.
Writers are busy people.
A bit like a one-man band.
We spend time rushing here and there.
Or we sacrifice time in the day,
To perfect our craft.
Chaotic or frustrating,
There never seem to be enough hours in the day.
In our minds,
We create storms of abstract lightning,
Across the sky,
Thinking of ways to catch the tempest,
Thinking of a thousand things a day,
And then you ask me,
Why are you being so quiet? …
Well, that’s because I'm a writer.
Be patient, I am working on greatness.