It takes endurance to write a book, perseverance, or a deep need to get lost in something deeply beautiful or other than what is being experienced by the expresser, who then offers the expression out of necessity. A survival mechanism, maybe.
In any case, it takes concentration to tap into someone else’s thoughts through my own. It takes scope and character stalking to figure out and fine-tune the details that make the entire story worth reading—everything from character traits to real-life scenarios that may have played similar to the scene haunting me.
And then my inner cynic is like, Okay, but, is it realistic or is this symbolic of something, and am I about to walk out all willy-nilly with my hiney out, bearing witness to the fact that I know nothing over the subject. I will do it in style in any case.
Sticking through the storyline I’m currently working through, has taken a peculiar conviction to something that resonates deeply and wouldn’t leave me alone until I let it out. If you are an artist of any kind, I imagine you understand this sensation. I keep that something in mind as often as I remember to, or as often the shadow of doubt rises to haunt me.
I have gained such a reverence for the art and act of completing such a grand task. It always seems so daunting when I am not in the middle of it. And then my best writing sessions happen effortlessly and out of the blue when I sit and start regardless of my reservations or distractions.
The best stories I’ve interacted with have all but written themselves in front of me, inside of me, and weaved themselves in through my surroundings. Plotlines manifest through characters I see while out and about, or in informative pieces, I stumble my way to. The process I’ve been led through leaves me no choice but to conclude that each completed work I’ve ever fallen in love with, was a treasure trove containing fragments of the source it came from.
I’ve never felt closer to the authors who created my favorite stories. The characters are dearer to me than ever.
I’m beginning to think that timeless pieces have to be nearly selfless and fully expressive of one’s self all at once to hold any drop of meaning outside of time. The curator must only take from the content overflowing into the saucer to be selfless, not dipping out of the teacup but offering the wisdom that’s left an imprint on them without interest over return. Then watch the return triple. In the long run, they will get back what they’ve given with interest through what extends from their pieces’ cultivation. I’m thinking of the C.S Lewis’ and the Tolkeins’ of the world, the ones stepping into those shoes right now.
I have gotten into the practice of meditating and concentrating on being full and reassured of my standing with the universe each time I take a deep breath and feel my chest and stomach expanding. Then, maybe doing push-ups, crunches, or sit-ups until my mind shuts up and becomes more receptive to better directives. It’s a real thing. Try it and be amazed. But be sure to do it in your way. Whatever that means *wink*. I take the moments of clarity produced by these tools to feed myself something new. Write something that changes me first, and others who it touches once I release it. Let me become more fully alive.
Or something along those lines. and then I jump into my story-scape and convince myself that in the end, once I finish. Every good intention I ever imagined while pushing myself through each chapter will be fed directly into the reader at the other end to brighten their life and fill them with renewed vigor through times of need.
One can only hope these inklings are on to something…