(Crossposted to: Life with Science)

Twelve years ago today on May 15, 2000 is when I first laid eyes on my future husband, Matt. We worked in the same company, but I worked in the Austin office and he worked in the London office. He had flown into Austin to train us on the company’s proprietary software. Other than Matt, I was the first one into the office that morning. We worked in a large, open-plan room with low-rise cubicles and the room was always dark because the programmers preferred for the lights to be off. He was sitting at a desk off in the corner working at a computer, his face lit up by the computer monitor in the dark room.

Two days later, I had a massive crush on him and two months later we were dating. And one year later we were married.

So May 15 is an auspicious day for me. It’s a day of love and beginnings. So, today is the official day that I begin writing as a career — truly begin. No more waltzing with fear and hiding from fate. I start work today.

And I’ve been conducting a postmortem in my head of all my past failed attempts. I can create brilliant small vignettes — little snippets of a story that read like poetry and carry deep meaning. But whenever I try to write an entire book, it reads, at best, like an 8th-grader’s attempt at fiction. The kernel of the story holds promise, but the surrounding prose drags it down into the realm of the novice, lacking clever timing and meaningful metaphor.

And why is this? My conclusion is that the failed attempts at an entire book have never come from my soul. Now, we can sit here and debate whether we even have souls or not, but the truth of the matter is, every artist creates from a personal and sacred spot deep inside of them. And when someone creates from this place of true emotion and lived experience, the resulting art has a life and an impact. Its beauty resonates outside of and separate from the artist.

And I think, when I’m forcing myself to just write through a story, that I’m not writing from that sacred spot. And the resulting story leaves the reader without an experience.

So, I’ll try to write from that sacred place. The story may be jumbled and it may meander untethered, but at least it will be true. And it certainly can’t be any worse than my past attempts.

I want to be a published author. I want to be a writer as a paid job and a lifelong career. I love to write. I love to play with words and grammar and sound.

But I’m terrified. I’m terrified of being so awful as to bring ridicule to myself and any who bear the name Woodings. My literary crapness will echo through time like a death knell to all of my dignity and self-respect.

And, as you can imagine, this intense and magnified fear stops me dead in my tracks. I have eaten a heroic amount of sugar and I have played an epic amount of Warcraft. All in a completely successful attempt to avoid writing.

But the problem is, under the sugar and Warcraft, is an intense desire to have a career as a writer. So I have decided to Valiantly Suck. Maybe I’ll suck, maybe I won’t. But, even carrying the fear and possibility of being a horrible writer, I have decided to proceed anyway. Because the only other choice is to not write at all, and that choice is filled with sadness and regret.

Now to just not let the fear destroy the fun….

“That one is special,” said Grandfather Elder with a strong voice as he pointed to Klarissa sitting meekly in the back.

He came forward and pulled Klarissa out of the shadows and into the light so he could look her over. Klarissa was terrified at becoming the center of attention. “I’m… I’m not special,” she stammered as she stood trembling under his piercing gaze and avoiding his eyes.

His voice and his gaze softened as he replied, “We are all special in the dance and unfolding of the universe.”

“Beats is special,” she continued. “She is beautiful and brave.” Grandfather Elder looked at Beats who returned his steady gaze with her own piercing steady gaze.

“Yes,” said Grandfather, “Beats is special. But,” and here he looked back at Klarissa, “you are the one who carries the buried light.”

“Kam!” Grandfather Elder called for his grandson who stepped forward into the light. “You are to accompany them, and you are to train this one. She is asleep.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Kam replied with a nod.

As Kam and Klarissa walked out of the tent, Kam asked, “You long to be Beats?”

“Who wouldn’t long to be Beats? She’s beautiful and strong.”

“She carries a lot of pain.”

“We all carry pain. At least she’s pretty and in pain.”

This made Kam laugh, but even with a smile on his face, he replied seriously, “While you do not accept yourself — while you do not feel and understand your own importance, beauty and poetry — your training will move slowly. You are swimming against the current, against the natural flow of energy. You are exhausting all of your resources on fantasies based on lack and inadequacy.”

This last statement stung. She could feel tears stinging her eyes but didn’t want him to see her cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he cupped her hands in his, “but as Grandfather said, you are asleep… in so many ways. You long for beauty when you have beauty. You long for strength when you have strength.”

“What do you know?!” Suddenly she was angry. She snatched her hand out of his. “What do you know of my pain?! Beautiful, am I? Tell that to all the boys who passed me over for a prettier face!”

He was quiet for a moment, weighing her anger against his words, before continuing. “You cannot move forward while you carry this burden. It weighs you down in the waters. Trust that you are exactly what you are supposed to be, that you are crafted with precision and poetry.

“There are many physical joys of life,” he continued, “and this is the only beauty that you, and many others, see.”
———————————————————-
And, shitzilla, that’s the end of the excerpt that I wrote in my notebook. What was Kam going to say! I really must write this book.

More randomness from a notebook, this time from 2010:

“Joy is thought,” he said.

I sat up suddenly for this simple statement — the words — seemed to carry physical impact.

“Joy is thought?” I asked. “It’s what I choose to think, choose to feel.” The puzzle pieces were falling into place in my head. “It’s whatever glasses I choose to put on.”

“Yes,” he said calmly in stark contrast to my excitement. “That’s why I can’t give you any Absolute Truths. Life is subjective. And you,” here he emphasized you as he continued, “choose the focus, direction and filter of the lens.”

I sighed and leaned back against him, saying, “It’s a lovely idea on paper, but it doesn’t get the dishes clean.”

He chuckled softly. “Your vision is still blurry,” he said. “You still don’t see how thoughts create. Thoughts shape everything: fear, love, belief, hope, trust.”
———————————————————————-

Life without goals is aimless and sad. Life with only goals is regimental and sad. Like so many things in life, balance is required. Goals and aspiration must be balanced with leisure and slow-paced awareness. And alternatively, leisure and slow-paced awareness must be balanced with goals, aspiration and hard, focused work.

The two modes of living, when combined, create a joyful, claimed life.
———————————————————————-

Too much drudgery in To Do lists.
Missing the joy and play.
Structure and Fluidity combined
— Balance
———————————————————————-

You take what is real and make it real.

One day I’ll actually write a cohesive, complete book instead of various notebooks filled with random vignettes.