Writer's Block

Several months back I found some old papers written back in my high school and college days. As I leaved through these archived memories, I found bits of myself I wish I could recapture.

There have been times in my life when writing was a passion. Times when catharsis could only be gained through the written expression of emotions too intense to verbalize audibly. At these times, the paper seemed the only one who "understood" me. The constant companion who would hear me out without judgment or interruption. Never too busy to bear my rantings. A dedicated, loyal confidant.

There have been longer periods when I could sit before a blank page unable to place pent to paper. Times when I desperately needed to express my inner self but could not. These times frustrate me.

I am a prolific talker. I will generally talk to anyone who will listen. (I know this comes a a surprise to my friends, family, and coworkers.) When others are no available to listen, I spend time talking to myself. (I even answer.) Being unable to communicate in any form is an extremely frustrating thing.

I digress... (As I often do.)


I spent some time reading through these old pages reliving moments all but forgotten. Some were assigned papers dryly written to transmit information to an academic critic. Others were personal. Pubescent pleas to my inner self for guidance through a nonexistent love life. Internal dialogue externalized. Some sad, others jubilant. The emotional roller coaster that is adolescence.

Paging through this literary scrapbook helps keep me in touch with my younger self. It puts into perspective the problems I may encounter as a rapidly-aging adult. It also helps me to regain some of the perspective I had at the times these thing were first recorded. As the father of an adolescent boy, it helps me reconnect with that hormone infused, hyper-emotional state of life. Looking back at the urgency with which my earlier rantings were written, I can see now how fleeting even the most intense times pass and be tempered with time.

My eldest son is 15. He has taken an interest in poetry and music of late. (As most of his peers have.) He has shared some of his writings with me lately. An honor I do not take lightly. Sharing ones inner feelings with another is no easy task. Doing so with a parent is monumental and I am blessed that he trusts me enough to share - at least some- his work. I read his words and can all but relive those same emotions from 20 plus years ago. The pain of unrequited love. The transition from one emotion to another. Shifting emotional gears with more speed than a NASCAR driver.

I read these things and a twinge of jealousy strikes me. Not the sort of jealousy one might think. I do not long to regain my youth. I would not return to that turmoil for any amount of money. I would love however, to regain the expressiveness. That ability to release my full emotional load onto the page. Trusting the page to take the abuse. Trusting it to keep your secrets.

Where do our emotions go as we age? Where can the catharsis come from when we are not able to put pen to page or fingers to keys? I wish I knew. I wrote tons. I felt more. I still feel, but the intensity is lost. The passion for the page, the romance seems more distant.

I am not sure the need to write has been diminished. The time is shorter. certainly the fluidity with which the words came has slowed. I was a professional writer, but I quit. I am now an amateur.

Perhaps the answer is in the discipline. I once wrote full-time out of a sense of urgency in expression of emotion. I wrote daily for school. I wrote daily for myself. I never kept a journal or diary. Those were too formal. I lacked the discipline.

I shall embark on a personal challenge. I will try to write something each day for the next two weeks. Some of these writings will eventually find there way here. Some (likely most) will be so pedestrian they will find their way to the dust bin. But I will try to write something daily. No page limits. No word-counts. Just find something inside that should be brought out and shared. Even if with just a piece of paper.

I will not endeavor to take on a forty-day writing / blogging blitz. My friend Angie Moncada attempted this on as her personal Lenten challenge this year. She came up with some great insights. She will also admit to the monumental challenge that committing to forty days of blogging poses. I am certainly not so eloquent as she. She is a professional. She didn't quit. I will however attempt to regain just a little of my love for writing. In so doing, I hope to recapture some of my youthful expressiveness. So Stay tuned... It might just get interesting.... at least to me.

A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit. Richard Bach

More thinking out loud

I got a response to the previous thread that got me thinking. This is a copy / paste from my response to his comment. (He responded privately so I will honor that by keeping his end private.)

>>>>>>>>HERE WE GO

20 years ago, I figured I would be teaching in some high school somewhere directing school plays and probably doing summer mission trips with some youth group.

I got to college, decided I didn't want to teach. (in a conventional classroom) I accepted a promotion that all but made continuing school impossible at the time. (Internet courses were just in the beginning stages.) Took another promotion, got married, adopted one kid and had another. Quit a job, took one for FAR less money so I could be with my kids more. Took another job that moved me back to Atlanta. I still make less than I did 12 years ago, but I am home more with the kids.

All are choices I made. All had consequences. Some were good choices, some were bad ones. But I know God is in control.

I do teach Sunday school in a rotation with a few other since I have to work some Sundays. I train new employees which is teaching. I am in management, but they send be home at 40 hours.

I read something the other day on a bracelet that made me stop and think.

"Dreams become reality one choice at a time."

That is true, but you have to make the right choices.

Thinking out loud

First of all... A lot has been going on recently. This stream-of-conscience came out of a screen-sitting session. I sit in front of a screen and sort of free type whatever comes to mind. It is presented here with very little editing. So here we go.

......

Even the tree reaches for the sun

The simplest of creatures moves about in order to survive and further it’s existence.

Only human beings will settle in to apathy and allow themselves to be tossed about by the environment about them. A sick inertia that rots the very soul of a man. “Failure to plan is planning to fail” (Ben Franklin) But if you set out to fail and do so, have you really succeeded? Or have you merely failed yourself to the utmost? Have you failed your destiny and potential by knowingly, willingly choosing to not succeed?

How sad is the man who merely exists? “Every man dies. Not every man really lives.” (William Wallace) What is this “living” of which the author speaks? Where is this "marrow" we are to "suck out of life?" (Walt Whitman) All I taste is the bitter gall of regret and despair.

We must never allow ourselves to become too comfortable with our station. We are to find “joy” in everything true, but not necessarily peace. We should strive for better. We must constantly expect better of ourselves.

For what purpose were you born? Was it to serve God? If so, how well are you serving if you are living an apathetic, lazy, complacent existence? How much greater does He expect your life to be? Is this the “full” life of which our savior spoke? (John 10:10)  He died for us, are we living for Him?

Where do we find our motivation? How do we begin to care? where is the care? They say we should “find our passions” but what do I do it I just don’t give a damn?

Long ago, I turned off the caring. I simply decided to “let it slide.” It was a survival tactic. I hid from it all and merely hoped to not be noticed. I wished to be invisible to hide from my own weaknesses and get away with doing as little as possible.

What is the price for that apathy. Will my folly catch up with me and be visited on my generations.

I am further away from God than I want, but it was I who moved. I may not have intentionally moved myself, but in my aimless drifting, I traveled far from His purpose for me. I know He is there. I know He can be located. Can I turn on the GPS and follow “God’s Positioning System” to find my way “home?” Like the prodigal son, I wrestle with the decision to return home to my Father to merely eat His scraps. Scraps are certainly more than I deserve for my arrogance and apathy.

I know I have talents. I may not know what they are any more or how to use them to His purpose, but I do know I have talents still. Who am I? What am I here for? Where am I supposed to be? How do I get there? Who is in place to help bring me along? Where do I go from here.

Like so many philosophers before me, I ask the questions, but I am not sure I really want answers. Not because I don’t want to know. I just like the process of asking the questions. I like the searching. I may not like the answers I receive. If I find the answers, then what? will there be more questions to pose?