Rediscovery

This past week has been a bit of normal except for an upper respiratory infection that has kept me on sicky poo lock down. Not really. Being an adult, sick is just a state of mind that doesn’t prevent things like work and yard work. Though I have avoided the crap out of yard work with the exception of taking the trash cans to the road on garbage day. Still, being sick puts a damper on the creative juices to the point I’ve managed to avoid writing almost all together. But, is that necessarily a bad thing? During the heat of the not writing moment, I would have screamed a resounding yes.
Toward the end of this cold–hope it is at least–I have different thoughts on the subject. Sick is a chance to take a mental slow down and rest. Personally for me, I only tend to get sick when I’ve been pushing myself and haven’t given my body the rest it needs. Quite honestly, I don’t give my body or spirit a lot of things they need. Then again, does any of us really? Don’t bother to answer. We all know the answer, so let’s not bother to lie to one another.
I’m writing. Not as much or as fast as I would like, but I am putting word to page. At the moment, I think that’s the important thing. The whole process of freeing the story from the locked recesses of your mind, I mean. Once upon a time, it was the easiest thing in the world for me to do. I could just as easily watch my books unfold in my head and let them wash out onto the screen. Age and medication has made the process a bit more complicated but I am in no way ready to fold my notebook in half and toss it in the back of the closet.
I know of late my missives have had a maudlin flavor, and for that I refuse to apologize. I am documenting my crawl from the darkness. To deny how I truly feel would be to deny this path. I am not hiding who I am or my emotional descent into whatever. I want someone to read this and say, I’ve been there and totally get it. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. Not totally me, but close enough I can see myself when I look into the mirror. You’re welcome to take a gander. Whether or not you appreciate the experiences etched in my face and soul is entirely up to you. I am not asking for sympathy or pity with these blogs. I’m asking you to look at yourself and make certain the things I write about aren’t glaring back in your mirror. It’s too easy to miss that something is wrong. Too easy to write it off as just another bad day, or that everyone has these moods every once in a while. Because, before you know it that one bad day is a crappy month and rapidly becoming a year eating at your last nerve. I’ve been there and it isn’t a very pretty place to call home.
The thing is we need to fall on our knees. We need to lose our way and get stuck up against walls. If everything came easy, there would be no struggle, no reason to strive to become better than we are. This is our moment of discovery. Maybe, rediscovery is the better way of looking at the situation. I’ll fully admit before this wall, I’d pretty much run out of juice. Nearly 25 stories and I had become stagnant and bored. The problem wasn’t that I couldn’t see the end of the story. No the probable WAS I could see the entirety of what was to come. There were no secrets left to uncover. There was no mystery. Nearly, a year and a half later I’m still in that pocket of finding me, but I’m getting closer to finding out who I am with 47 years under my belt.
As the words once again begin to flow, I’m excited at what’s coming out. I feel matured in what I have to say. Not a hundred percent grown-up, but not all boy either. I never want to grow out of who I was on the journey to becoming the refined me, burned bright in the fires of tribulation I’m going through. No, growing up should be an ongoing extension of you. You should never have to sacrifice parts of yourself in the becoming. If you do, you aren’t being honest to yourself, your craft, or to anyone you meet.
So I’m going to sign off here because this honesty is a bit unsettling. As an author I like to deal in fiction laced with honesty. Total truth is a tad too much for me to put out there, but then again, in the heart of fiction there is only truth to be laid bare. It is up to the reader to find you among the lies we call fiction. So I invite you to see me among the masks and tell me if you can see my journey or do I still have a lot more growing up left to do?
Good night my friends, and as always Happy Reading,
Jmo.

New Mes and all that.

You probably noticed that I took a break last weekend. No blog was just the tip of the iceberg where last weekend is considered. No, I don’t mean a reality based reenactment of the Hangover. Being an author is a consuming vocation. Your mind is so constantly turned inward to the imaginary worlds of your books that it’s hard to remember there might actually be a real world out there. Honestly, most of the time we don’t want to remember it’s there. Books, whether we’re writing them or reading them, are our ways to escape from our ‘real’ world. But sometimes, we have to venture out into that harsh reality for our own good. At least that’s what my family tells me.

Last weekend was one of those times. Only my family didn’t force me out of the nest. I went willingly. Apparently when I wasn’t looking, I developed some friends. Strange thing about friends that live close enough to be parts of your life outside a messenger window or Facebook status, they can convince you to leave your house. I know! If I’d known all that, I’d have kept to myself and ordered crap off Amazon exclusively. Oh well. What’s done is done.

That sounds funny and all, but for a long time, my life existed via my family and internet windows. I was fine with that. Really I was. Last year helped convince me, making friends led to sadness and woe. Why? Losing people sucks. Being who I am, I started retreating inside myself to the point where even simple communication became a hard thing to accomplish. Writing? Forget it.

Most writers want you to think that writing is a solitary sport. Something that can only be done when you block out the rest of the world and let yours be the only one that matters. For the most part that is true, but you have to allow outside stimulus to have some part in your existence. Work and the grocery store does not make a life. They make a sad and pathetic way to spend an excellent life. For a writer, it makes for a life without inspiration. For a normal human being, it makes for a life without meaning. Sadly it can also mean a life about to end tragically. For some people, it amounts to a life that never truly began. Maybe that is the true origin story of some authors, lives that never truly began. I hope not, but you never know.

Like I was saying, sometimes we get locked into our own agoraphobia. I’m avoiding the word rut but there it is. Ruts happen and if we let them, they take over every aspect of our lives. And that’s where friends outside of windows come in handy. Friends force you to step outside your comfort zone. They make you basically live your life instead of simply walking dead through it. For the last couple of years walking dead is the only way I can explain my life. Is it still walking dead? In some ways, but isn’t everyone’s life a bit zombie with intermittent happiness to make us go through one more moment to get to the next.

Back in January I did something different. I actively made friends. ¬†Okay, not actively, but it happened without me trying. I mean it wasn’t just one friend. I made a few. This is totally strange for me, because I am the most introverted extrovert you’ll ever meet. It’s not that I dislike people, I just like to like people in small numbers. The point I’m working toward is letting one of these amazing people come into my life at a time. A couple had already been in my life, but I took the time to really get to know them. In the midst of meeting people, and becoming friends with said people, I started to see past the darkness of what my life had become. This might sound selfish to you, but they became my inspiration. I know using people to fuel your imagination is iffy morally, but it works.

People evolve you. They make you become more than you can be alone. They truly make you a better you. My friends have done that for me. They’ve allowed me to come out of my shell. I know it’s hard to believe I have a shell, but we all build them. It’s how we survive. Maybe shell isn’t the right word. Mask seems a better use of the vocabulary. However you wish to describe the situation, I can see myself becoming a functioning member of society because of their influence. Okay, we are talking about people that would hang out with me, so maybe functioning is stretching things a bit.

Let’s say this instead. My friends are making me a happier member of society. Along the way, they are introducing me to a me I’ve never met before, and that’s pretty cool. Who knows what kind of writer that might make me before things are done? Going to be interesting to see. I humbly invite you all along for the ride.

Til next week,

Happy reading!

Jmo.