Writers sometimes keep journals about their project(s) and within those journals are all sort of contemplations about why they are hooked on a particular topic or idea, who their characters are and why they do what they do. These diaries can be filled with contemplative reflections that go on in a stream of writing way for pages at a time, or just a note; some little snippet of an idea to be considered on some other day.
I'm deeply immersed in one such diary at the moment and considering the motives of the two main characters in the story. I feel I know what she wants but I am not entirely sure of what the male character stands to get; not at all sure what is motivating him. Well, sometimes, I am sure of what he wants and sometimes he just confuses me. But then, is that I, the writer of these characters that is feeling different today than I did yesterday, just as all our emotions and thoughts fluctuate somewhat from day to day, or is it my vision of Daniel that is seeing things in some sort of new light; something that I didn't see there before? At the end of the day, it is all perception, not some truth of the matter, I think.
Of course, we don't necessarily want to be seen under a bright, neon light. We may have no desire whatsoever for someone to understand us in our entirety and so it is with the writer's process - some characters are tricky; some choose not to reveal themselves in any complex and complete way. That's why we write notes, trying to pin them down; to make sense of behavior that seems to have no logic of its own.
Diaries are used for catharsis, too. Moments of anger, frustration and joy ask to be cataloged in a diary. I've no idea why exactly except that for some people there's an instinct working that tells them to 'write it down' and so we do; the heartbreaks, the moments of happiness; a sudden burst of understanding about a situation. We write down changes too. We notice, our intuition notices that there has been a change within us and our intellect goes to work to try to figure what it was that our intuition noted. Since we learned language we've felt right about getting things down.
I've noticed all morning that I feel different than I did, say, last week. Yes, a weekend away in the country stimulates my senses and getting out of the city is enlivening for my spirits. But, it's more than that. My body, over the past five days or so has been stimulated (used) and having expressed myself in this way (that is, felt deeply and contentedly objectified several times over) my mind is in a state of peace; not empty but slowed right down. I've no desire today to do, but rather just to sit with myself. Never mind that I have writing to do. I'm doing the writing that I'm not required to do, as you can see.
This is no permanent 'fix'. There's still a long way to go before I could feel that the situation has settled such that every day is an authentic day, or a day in which all is in its place in my world, but I don't feel any longer that sense that I'm living in my own little nightmare, unable to make it go away. It's back to that feeling of contentedness (even though nothing has actually changed other than the use, and my sense of things, and my feelings about all that), and that understanding of the contentedness that it is no permanent state. What I mean is that I know that I am a slew of emotions that alter and change without my being able to set them in a particular way. All I can do is notice them; be aware of them; celebrate them when I feel as I do now; as if I have walked out of the primordial swamp intact; alive. "I am alive!" What a wonderful feeling is that!
Of course, the idea is that when one is enlightened enough, one simply accepts each new day and each new set of feelings as they change and transform as being 'right'. If one is simply awareness, one looks in on the situations of life and accepts all that happens; all that one thinks.
I'm not explaining it well, because at this moment I am writing as if I were writing in one of my hand written diaries, none too worried about being logical; just exploring an idea. The best I can do is to say that I am very aware of this moment where my fingers are gliding over the letters of the laptop; where I sit here at the big round table with myself, surrounded by pages that offer endless ideas about the creative process and feel...content. I have no particular needs. I'm not even focused on doing the task at hand (as is obvious) but rather sitting with myself, whoever that is.
As I woke this morning I remembered, quite out of the blue, that I had a conversation with a woman about two years ago now. She used to look after me when I was a little girl, She cooked for me mostly but she also talked to me a lot. There had been a gap of about 20 years since I saw her last and the first thing she said to me was "I'd have known you anywhere. You haven't changed at all." I didn't like to ask then what I woke up wishing that I had asked. "Who is that little girl you know so well? What was I like? Tell me about myself."
I'm beginning to think that no matter the subject of our writing, at the end of the day we inject every situation and every character with a part of ourselves, because the most fascinating part of any human being's journey through life remains the eternal question, 'Who am I?' We may never know.
I'm deeply immersed in one such diary at the moment and considering the motives of the two main characters in the story. I feel I know what she wants but I am not entirely sure of what the male character stands to get; not at all sure what is motivating him. Well, sometimes, I am sure of what he wants and sometimes he just confuses me. But then, is that I, the writer of these characters that is feeling different today than I did yesterday, just as all our emotions and thoughts fluctuate somewhat from day to day, or is it my vision of Daniel that is seeing things in some sort of new light; something that I didn't see there before? At the end of the day, it is all perception, not some truth of the matter, I think.
Of course, we don't necessarily want to be seen under a bright, neon light. We may have no desire whatsoever for someone to understand us in our entirety and so it is with the writer's process - some characters are tricky; some choose not to reveal themselves in any complex and complete way. That's why we write notes, trying to pin them down; to make sense of behavior that seems to have no logic of its own.
Diaries are used for catharsis, too. Moments of anger, frustration and joy ask to be cataloged in a diary. I've no idea why exactly except that for some people there's an instinct working that tells them to 'write it down' and so we do; the heartbreaks, the moments of happiness; a sudden burst of understanding about a situation. We write down changes too. We notice, our intuition notices that there has been a change within us and our intellect goes to work to try to figure what it was that our intuition noted. Since we learned language we've felt right about getting things down.
I've noticed all morning that I feel different than I did, say, last week. Yes, a weekend away in the country stimulates my senses and getting out of the city is enlivening for my spirits. But, it's more than that. My body, over the past five days or so has been stimulated (used) and having expressed myself in this way (that is, felt deeply and contentedly objectified several times over) my mind is in a state of peace; not empty but slowed right down. I've no desire today to do, but rather just to sit with myself. Never mind that I have writing to do. I'm doing the writing that I'm not required to do, as you can see.
This is no permanent 'fix'. There's still a long way to go before I could feel that the situation has settled such that every day is an authentic day, or a day in which all is in its place in my world, but I don't feel any longer that sense that I'm living in my own little nightmare, unable to make it go away. It's back to that feeling of contentedness (even though nothing has actually changed other than the use, and my sense of things, and my feelings about all that), and that understanding of the contentedness that it is no permanent state. What I mean is that I know that I am a slew of emotions that alter and change without my being able to set them in a particular way. All I can do is notice them; be aware of them; celebrate them when I feel as I do now; as if I have walked out of the primordial swamp intact; alive. "I am alive!" What a wonderful feeling is that!
Of course, the idea is that when one is enlightened enough, one simply accepts each new day and each new set of feelings as they change and transform as being 'right'. If one is simply awareness, one looks in on the situations of life and accepts all that happens; all that one thinks.
I'm not explaining it well, because at this moment I am writing as if I were writing in one of my hand written diaries, none too worried about being logical; just exploring an idea. The best I can do is to say that I am very aware of this moment where my fingers are gliding over the letters of the laptop; where I sit here at the big round table with myself, surrounded by pages that offer endless ideas about the creative process and feel...content. I have no particular needs. I'm not even focused on doing the task at hand (as is obvious) but rather sitting with myself, whoever that is.
As I woke this morning I remembered, quite out of the blue, that I had a conversation with a woman about two years ago now. She used to look after me when I was a little girl, She cooked for me mostly but she also talked to me a lot. There had been a gap of about 20 years since I saw her last and the first thing she said to me was "I'd have known you anywhere. You haven't changed at all." I didn't like to ask then what I woke up wishing that I had asked. "Who is that little girl you know so well? What was I like? Tell me about myself."
I'm beginning to think that no matter the subject of our writing, at the end of the day we inject every situation and every character with a part of ourselves, because the most fascinating part of any human being's journey through life remains the eternal question, 'Who am I?' We may never know.
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