Self-belief

I am becoming more comfortable now with this need to write. I'm understanding more about the need to wrestle with the themes and preoccupations of my life and to shape them into a story.

For many years, there  was no time to write. Four busy children and a fully occupied husband absorbed my time. As well, in those child rearing years I didn't have the strong desire to write that I do now. There was adequate succor for me bringing up the children. There was also plenty of worry. It can deplete desire to be creative in another medium.

It is true that my husband would say from time to time that I should sit down and write, but the impetus was not coming from within. I give full credit for my entry into a writing life to my psychologist, who I saw for about ten sessions a few years ago now.

'What would you really like to do?'
'Well, I'm not sure that I have any talent, but I'd like to do a writing course.'
'I don't doubt that you have talent. What is really stopping you?'

I don't remember what I said. I've been sitting here for a few minutes trying to reconstruct that conversation. I probably said that the children still took up a lot of time and I wasn't sure which course to pick. I no doubt gave her any excuse that I could come up with in the moment.

What I didn't say was that I had zero confidence; that the thought of actually doing what I really wanted to do filled me with fear and anxiety, because somewhere in the doing of the course it would be proven categorically that I had no talent.

I do remember her telling me to research writing courses and that next time we met I should let her know which course I had decided on and my reasons for choosing that particular course. She was tough under that sweet surface of hers!

I did do the research and I chose a course that would give me a smattering of choices for a possible writing life; subjects concerning journalism, writing critiques, writing film scripts, adapting one form of writing to another, starting a novel, and so on. I was hedging my bets; that if I was useless in one form of writing I might be better in another. Truthfully, I really wanted to go to the same institution that my youngest son attends now, but it is highly selective and I simply didn't think that I could ever be chosen. So, I downplayed my interest in it.

She was happy with my selection and explanation of my choice, though she did question me about the generalist, academic nature of my selection.  I think she would have been happier with a course that focused specifically on creative writing. It probably would have been a wiser choice, in retrospect, although the course I did expanded my mind and that's a good thing. She was happy enough until I said that I wouldn't enrol in the upcoming study period but rather wait until the new year which was in several months.

'Oh no you don't,' she said more forcefully than any other statement she had ever made, or would make to me. 'You're enrolling right now!' So, I did. I felt I had no choice and that was probably also a good thing.

I remember beginning the very first subject and there were twelve in all. I remember thinking, 'Well, I haven't a clue how to do this so I have nothing to lose.' I remember it being a huge accomplishment in my mind when I could find all the material and sites and discussion boards; you name it. Technologically, I was a dinosaur being drawn into a new era.

I remember having to choose another writing student as a writing buddy and I quickly formed the impression that one young man would be ideal for me. His style of writing and interests were entirely different to mine, but he was smart, witty, open and friendly. We got on very well given all the differences. I remember him having to formally critique a piece of writing of mine for the first time. I had made so many fundamental mistakes but he saw something fresh and honest in the writing and he's always been encouraging to me. I remember getting a Distinction for that subject and that gave me some slight optimism in my own ability to survive the course.

I remember taking on two subjects the next semester and at one point half way through the semester my nerve cracked. I wrote to the tutor of my 'Writing History' subject and said that I had taken on too much and perhaps should withdraw from her subject. She wrote back to say that was unnecessary since I was well on my way to a very high score. There it was again, a fundamental refusal to believe in myself, and to be genuinely shocked at the positive comments she made.

I remember getting back the result of one story I had submitted and the tutor noting in her comments   that she was sure that I would be published very soon.  I thought she was 'bullshitting'. I wanted to believe it. I just did not.

I remember writing to another writing student and sharing with her that I had no faith in my own ability at all. She wrote back and said, 'Sweetie, if you have no confidence in your own ability then we are all doomed. Everybody on that discussion board can see you have ability.' More bullshitting. It was kind, but it didn't mean anything to me.

Conversely, I took constructive criticism very personally. I didn't disagree with it. It just went straight to my soul as a wound. High Distinctions did little to deter me from my fundamental belief that I was winging it somehow; tricking them.

Towards the end of the course another writing student asked for stories for her online literary magazine. I sent her a story that I wrote immediately the course was over. It was a story for myself; relief from the academic rigours of the MA; kinky. She liked it and published it. But, guess what? I showed it to no-one and only mentioned it in passing to the family. She asked for more. I have yet to provide them.

Then, something shifted. I had read Elizabeth Strout's The Burgess Boys and loved it. I listened to her being interviewed on a podcast and something about her comments about her writing life resonated with me. Then, I starting reading Colm Toibin - his collection of short stories The Empty Family, and two of his novels, Brooklyn and Nora Webster. I listened to everything I could find where he was being interviewed. Then, I returned to Strout and did the same thing.

Ever so gradually it began to sink into my psyche; the sort of writer that I was, what it was possible to do, and how it was possible to do it; that I'd make many mistakes before I could produce something I was happy with; that I wasn't a normal person at all but a writer who must write; that the events and preoccupations of my life were enough to create many stories.

I am what is known as a spare writer, and a writer who needs to create characters with rich internal worlds, and that was acceptable. But, I needed to work on creating muscular sentences. I needed to sit down every day and write so that the writing would improve. I wasn't talentless, but nor could I be lazy. This is what I learned from those podcasts and Utube videos. God bless the Internet.

In the past few weeks my internal world has changed. The possibilities seem endless. I am beginning to talk to my family in a new way. My writing is my work I told them; not housework or cooking or arranging things. I'll do my share, I said, the lion's share, of course. But, I wanted them to pull in too. I want time to sit and hone my craft.

On Tuesday, I noticed myself slip. I'd exercised in the morning and the plan was to get to my Meditation group at noon. However, the state of the house overwhelmed me. In the end I wasn't going to be able to meditate in a group knowing that I had endless things to do at home. I stayed home and sorted so that I could write later in a clear and tidy space. In my defence I am not the sort of person that needs to clean the entire house in order to write, but nor can I alter my mind such that I can write surrounded by mess. It's not even an excuse. It's just the environment I need to be able to enter my sub-conscious and draw out what I need for the scenes.

I remembered this morning a lovely man who was a correspondent of mine for some time. He wasn't shy in sharing his opinions with me and he said that it was funny that I longed to travel and yet I loved to be at home. I finally figured this out. I do desperately want to write. It's a huge need. I look to the outside world for inspiration and energy, but I look to my internal world and my home as the place where creativity lives. This makes home very important to me.

I have a very long way to go, but there is a modicum of belief in myself right now. I have my fingers crossed that I can build on this small start.

Just doing it, again

Last night, as I was walking past, nearby to where my son was on the rowing machine doing an ergo, I heard him panting. He'd been really pushing it and he was quietly gasping for breath. It wasn't too shabby given that he had put in a long, gruelling day at work. But then, I heard the machine come to life again, and he was off for another round. Of course, that is how he was trained to do it, when he was racing; when the coach required his peak level of fitness. Nowadays, there is no coach in his life. No, he was pushing himself. I was quietly impressed. He is a man on a mission. He knows what he wants.

This morning, with the house quiet, I thought to do an ergo myself. I've been using his rowing machine for a couple of months now, fairly regularly, but I haven't managed to keep on it for more than ten...eleven, tops...minutes at a time. I thought about my son and I thought about my daughter. She's a quiet achiever that one and she'd risen to be in the top rowing squad at school and performed outstandingly well. Not a natural athlete, her talents being in the creative and performing arts, if she could do it, why couldn't I? What excuse did I have to be a wimp.

So, this morning, I searched out my I-Pod and turned it on and put the ear phones in my ears. I was going to do better today! Music is a wonderful, motivating thing and as I passed the ten minute mark, I realized that I had plenty in the tank. I was not even close to finished. The minutes passed...12, 13, 14, 15, and I could see that 20 minutes on the same setting as my son (high!) was definitely achievable. I felt terrific! I felt so proud of myself. I was strong. I was woman. I was doing this!

I'm incredibly lucky in my life nowadays. I really am. Not only have I a wonderful husband who has embraced all the goals I have set for myself but I also have a wonderful friend who has been willing to mentor me. A very big part of that mentoring has been about me wanting the goals for myself. I repeat: me wanting the goals for myself. He knows down to his bones that it is no use the dom insisting on goals that won't work for the girl; that won't make the girl happy. The dom/top, and the girl are in this together and the girl has to find the motivation within herself to embrace the changes. She has to really want it. He is there beside her, but she has to desire change for herself, too.

The first few weeks of getting fit were not fun. I was perpetually tired and challenged. Even worse, with my body passing through a significant life change, it was resisting my efforts. Over several weeks though, I found I was winning the war against my body's desire to put on weight. It was happening.

Now, I feel that the changes I have made are set in stone. I may still have the odd naughty treat, but my choices of food and my daily regimen of exercise are altered for good. I am well on my way to achieving my weight and fitness goals.

Having someone to support/cajole/growl at us along the way is important to we kinky girls, but finding the motivation within ourselves, I have learned, is an essential component. Just do it. No excuses. No complaints. You'll be glad you did.

My Domme - part 2

So, we sat down to talk, and she asked about what I ate and when. We talked about what I was doing wrong. It seems that I was not having enough protein, nor was I eating regularly enough. It is something that my husband has told me for years, so it turns out he was right; again.

She talked about what a week looked like for me and what my commitments were. She knows me. I attend an exercise class of hers each week elsewhere. She talked about how I was such a "giver" and that I do that so "naturally and casually". It was time in my life, she said, to insist on some "me time". What did I like to do? This gets tricky, because as soon as I ever tell someone that I "like to write", they ask me what I am writing. So, I told her that I write short stories about "relationships". That is what I liked to do with spare time.

So, we devised a weekly schedule: a routine of exercise and times when I would write, in a room with the door closed. She said that I really had to "insist" on that with the family.

I found myself comparing her to a dominant man I know on the Internet; a man who believes in rituals but also believes in "me time", too; a man who supports rituals as a way of my getting that "me time". The penny was starting to drop. It was okay to have 'me time'!

With the discussion over, she moved into the 'workout'. Panting, breathless, desperate; I tried to distract her for a moment to get a breath of air.

"You're a slave driver!"

"Why do you think they call me 'Madam Lash'?"

I giggled.

"They do?"

"What do you think the other group gave me for Christmas? A whip!"

"They did?"

In my mind, this conversation was already on the blog.

Finally, the woman left, with instructions to have a big drink of water and a "bit of a rest." She'd see me the day after next.

And, so it has begun; insistent 'motivation' to get fit and lose those couple of mid-life kilos that I want off.

It is a bit of carrot and plenty of stick.

And, Clemmi, you're next!

Big Girls

It’s time to call a spade, a spade. I’ve been pretty itchy, scratchy lately. I could go into all the meanderings of my mind, but it can get a little foggy in there sometimes. Instead, I’ve come to talk to you.

And, here’s the thing. I am fit now; physically fit, that is. I never thought I would say this, but I am fit. I’ve got a lot of energy to use up and I am having trouble. All those leg ups, all those sprints, all those abdominal crunches, and pounding that bar above my head has paid off, and I’m fit.

That should be good news. Right? Well, it is good for my body, but it is maybe not so good for my poor husband and kinky friends placed around the world, who have been dealing with my overactive mind lately. And, it isn’t that you chaps weren’t fantastic listeners, because you are the best listeners a girl could find.

But, a girl has to accept the reality of her situation. I have a lot of energy and I need to set myself some projects and dissipate some of this excess energy. That’s the bottom line. I need to do.

“I think I’ll go and write a post,” I said to my husband just now, trying to catch a few extra winks on a Sunday morning.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “You go post.”

I could just tell he was happy to be rid of me. A girl with excess energy can be rather inconvenient sometimes, it seems.

So, I’ve made a list of things I can achieve; things to do that will keep me busy and hopefully fulfil me.

“Thank God”, I hear you lovely chaps saying.

Yes, thank something. Indeed.

So, I’m back to being chirpy. No more introspection; for now. (Are you proud of me, Clemmi?) I am firmly planted in the land of projects.

I am woman. See me create.

You see, I love my little submissive world. It is so cosy; warm and delicious. It is lovely being a good, little girl. It’s heaven.

But, who am I kidding? I am really a big girl now. The age on my birth certificate is evidence that I reached maturity some time ago.

So, I can’t hang around waiting for others to make me do things. I have to make myself peddle my own bike faster when they are too busy to hang around me, holding the stopwatch. If I don’t do it right, I think I can rely on them to call in.

So, I’m off. I’m peddling fast. I can feel the wind at my face. It’s invigorating. I think I like this...