All morning, through prayer, solitude of drinking tea, a game of ‘Where’s My Water’ with Little Dude, then fixing breakfast for us, driving Little Dude to school, coming home and starting wash and feeding chickens and checking the catch-pans beneath the leaks in the attic in preparation of today’s expected rain, I’ve been listening to a story in my imagination. I’m asking what project to work on and listening for answers.
It is paying attention to process rather than product. For years I learned very well how to produce. I was constantly pressing to produce a story. Very often I did lose myself in the process, thank heaven, or else no book would have ever been written, but it was struggle and pressure. Not only do I not want to live like that any more, but I cannot. Today I know the priceless value of writing for it’s own sake. The priceless value of listen to what comes and writing that down, and then more comes and write that down, and simply allow myself to enjoy the writing.
“I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.” ―Katherine Mansfield
I’ve written nothing for far too long. The not writing is a slow death for me. Darlings, even if it is for a half an hour, squeeze out that time and let yourself listen and write what you hear. You’ll find amazing things.