writing muscles

My friend Jeff is a writer and he told me to write every day. That was Saturday. Today is Thursday. It’s the first day I’ve written. I don’t understand why it’s so difficult to do something that I find so easy and fulfilling, something that is therapeutic and that I hope to make a career of someday. It’s kind of like going to the gym. It’s hard to get in a routine but once you’re hooked, it’s almost impossible to quit. Kind of like smoking for most people. Wouldn’t it be funny if they had to make a gym-otine patch to get people to quit working out. Hey, man! You’re getting too fit. What’s with the six pack? Dude, you need some help. I’ve got a support group you have to join.

So Jeff says, just write something – anything - every day. It doesn’t matter what it is, it’s just good practice for your writing muscles. You never have to show anybody. You don’t even have to save it. It’s just exercise. Letting your creativity stretch and get warmed up before the big race.

I kind of like it.

It reminds me of therapy after Steve (the first guy I thought I would marry) and I broke up. Barbara, a granola looking woman with frizzy brown hair and a kind of plain face, was my therapist. She always offered water and then supplied me with an itty-bitty Dixie cup chock full of lukewarm water. That’s not much liquid courage for an hour of self-reflection, is it? Barbara suggested that I write a daily journal to help me sort through all of the emotions of being dumped, to help me figure out who I was, who I had been and even more important who I wanted to be and how to get there. It was like a word game, a verbal map to the soul. So I did it. I wrote. And I healed. And she would ask me if I edited my thoughts as I put them down on paper. Duh. Of course I did. The reason why? Why would I feel as though I had to pretend, to hide or correct this raw expression of my thoughts and self. Uhhh, the obvious answer. What if someone read it?! What if someone figured out who I really was? What if they knew I had deep, dark thoughts, some that were not nice. Some that were just silly or cruel or that I had done some of the things I’ve done.

And, even worse, what if I was the one who figured out who I really was. Frightening thought for someone who had hidden inside a shell, a shadow, a shadow shell for almost her whole life. Always letting other people invent me. Sometimes I wonder if I still do that. There was a character on Star Trek once (bear in mind this is when I used to be a Trekkie because the guy I dated was a twice-a-day Star Trek junkie) who was called a Mesomorph and she basically became whatever her mate wanted her to be. If they liked WWF she was a great wrestler with a penchant for tight shiny spandex and body slams. If they were a foodie, she prepared amazing French cuisine with the perfect wine pairings. If I were on Star Trek, I’d be a Mesomorph. Which is actually probably better than being a Klingon or one of the green slimy chicks. So anyway, here it is, 13 years later and I wonder if this will be the true test. Can I write without editing? And then the bigger test, can I write and share it with people? Writing is somehow like dropping your pants and walking down the sidewalk. It allows people – the ones who know you best and the ones who know you not at all – to see who you really are. All the flaws, all the dimples in your butt, all the unshaven hair that you can usually hide under your clothes are hanging right out there for everyone to see, and critique, and relate to, and comment on. Like they say in Vegas, you’ve got to bet big to win big. Or is it, lose big to win big? I think I’ll stick with bet. Sounds a little more like I’ve got a chance to win with that one. Tomorrow, even more personal insights and growth…and another hour at the gym. Every literary workout deserves a corresponding physical exertion, don’t you think?