About this time two Mondays ago my brightly lit world went dark.
Super Storm Sandy made her presence known and took away our lights, the Internet and the soft glow of our 42″ flat screen tv. Oh, and lest I forget the necessities: heat, access to money or gasoline and any semblance of fresh produce.
But we survived. We had water, a decent amount of non-perishable food items and candles. Make that oodles of candles (side note: one bag of 100 tea lights will last you 9 days without power and light up to 4 rooms/day. And you’ll still have some leftover to decorate the votive holders stashed around your house. You’re welcome).
Today I officially “claim” that sentence as my own. Sure, in years past I could have said that I write for a living (in a public relations capacity) but I never claimed the “writer” label, instead using it to describe my dream of one day becoming one. The pipe dream that I could cling to in the hopes that one day it would come true.
Funny it took a hurricane, nay a super storm, some may even say the perfect storm to bring it to fruition.
Hurricane Sandy has since come and gone. In its wake? An entire coastline is destroyed and small towns are left trying to figure out the extent of the damage. Days are spent cleaning up the reminders of gale force winds that ripped large oaks from their perches, sent debris cascading through neighborhood streets, and toppled telephone and power lines like they were lined up dominoes.
And me? I sit and wait. No power, spotty cell phone reception that allows for the random text message in and out, not to mention the threat of the water contamination and looming shut-off (glad I housed that SIGG bottle of water earlier).
One of the loves of my life is simultaneously the bane of my existence.
What does this look like, you ask? A warped cycle that goes a little something like this:
I go out and experience everything (heck, anything) that could potentially become fodder for my writing (read: copious notes in my Moleskine) and when the creative inspiration hit me, I spend HOURS writing. It is a “feast or famine” mentality that keeps the thoughts tumbling around in my head instead of flowing through my fingertips onto the screen or page before me. My recent writing challenge helped me identify that I don’t carve out enough time to devote to a daily writing practice. But the what about the other side of the coin—this deeply held belief I have about the creative spirit and writing when inspiration strikes?
My two weeks are up.
It started with such potential. Write three hours a day: morning/lunch/night. It seemed doable. Being the type-A Virgo, I even created a table where I could faithfully check off the day and hour that I devoted to my writing challenge. Yes, I’m that nerdy.
Week One? I missed three sessions. Not bad considering life didn’t stop: the full-time job, yoga classes, dinners and happy hours with friends and hosting a party for Marc’s mom’s birthday/parents 43rd anniversary. It felt awesome, I felt productive. I was on creative fire. I felt like…a writer.
Enter Week Two.