Beginning

The turmoil of getting started

In spite of good intentions I have procrastinated brilliantly with regard to my writing practice. I catch myself, often wondering what it is that keeps me from beginning. What am I afraid of? The answer remains vague, just out of reach of my conscious mind, and I head down the path of “I should know better…”

 

I procrastinate and tell myself "when I have time..." and then a perfect day arrives and it makes no difference. I have no appointments scheduled, the world outside is covered by a blanket of snow, and the phone is strangely silent. I lose count of the many times I tell myself to get started, just do it, and so forth. The paralysis is shocking and if I were one of my own clients I would most certainly kick my butt into action, unwilling to accept the excuses and rationalizations I might come up with in my own defence!

 

I recently spent two days at a professional seminar where I was acknowledged for my authenticity and courage. I've been told many times that I am creative and talented. None of it makes a difference to my identity, lurking quietly in a dark corner of my mind, waiting for just the right moment to snap into action and blast my limiting beliefs and self doubts onto loudspeaker! Over time I have learned to ignore it, if only for a short while. And so the day has drifted away like the snow blowing so unfamiliarly along the street below my window, one distraction after another seducing me away from my desk, away from my laptop, away from my commitment to write.

 

How do I know I have what it takes to write? I hear myself telling people that I have known since I was a child that I would write a book one day. I also believed I’d be a famous artist living in a beautiful, spacious loft in New York. Could this desire to write, this unshakeable yearning be simply another pipe dream, something to think of wistfully as I move through the day to day routine of my life? On my deathbed as I review my life and the various accomplishments, will I be content if this book is not written, if this aspect of me is never expressed? No. The regret looms large, too great to consider and so I begin.

 

What do I actually know about writing? I learned to read before school age, I was a good student, the smart girl who helped her friends. So what if I won awards for writing and creativity – that was over 30 years ago! What have I written or created lately, my identity screams at the top of its lungs.

 

I have a box in my office filled with journals I can not resist buying, hoping that one of them will inspire my pen to paper yet afraid to write on that first page, not wanting to make a mistake or ruin the pristine quality of the page. I laugh out loud at my own silliness. I laugh out loud knowing that I am not the only one with this journal fetish, this yearning to write. My friend Mary and I forever looking at the many beautiful journals and notebooks when shopping. Our hands lightly trace the covers, feeling the surface, wishing we (I think I’m safe in assuming the same for her) could fill it with our brilliance, wisdom and humour. I laugh out loud at the numerous times I’ve begun, and then torn out the offending pages of notes, so certain of their unworthiness. My God, the drama of it all!

 

I sit in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket, my hands icy cold as I type these words on my laptop. That I’ve chosen to type rather than write – even that seems wrong, like somehow I am cheating. Should I be writing on parchment with a Mont Blanc pen? Would that then make me a writer?

 

Time to go shopping; I've always wanted one of those pens.

Reviews

[Dianne]

Congratulations! So glad to see you here. Why do you think you should be any less susceptible to paralysis then the wrest of us? What I'm really proud to see is that while you're susceptible to the paralysis, you have taken the first step to moving again. Guess that means you're back among the truly living and not one of the living dead. Progress happens one step at a time. Love you!