Am I Deluded?
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been beavering away writing.
Why? I’m not a writer, or at least it’s not something I’ve ever really considered doing seriously before. Most of us consider writing a book at some point, and millions of people try every year. Most fail. So what makes me think I can do this?
The answer is an interesting one. As I emerged from my period of depression a couple of years ago, I began working my way through the book, The Artists Way by Julia Cameron (a brilliant book by the way). One of the earliest exercises encouraged me to consider, if I had five lives to live, what I would do with each of them? One of my answers was that I’d write children’s novels. So there it was in black and white. Deep down I’d like to be a writer.
Until recently, I’d completely forgotten about this exercise and my response. However, as I began writing my first story about Minima’s adventures in Concordia’s World, which I’d intended adding to my blog, the story grew and expanded. I quickly realised that it was much more than a short story.
I’ve now become obsessed by it. For weeks I’ve been writing away. I bought an app called Scrivener in which to write and create my precious baby. I’ve joined a writing group, full of experienced writers who have been kind and generous with their comments and advice. They love my ideas, my creativity, but my writing needs work. To help address this need, I’ve been scouring the internet for help and on Saturday I will be attending an all day creative writing workshop at Winchester University.
I’ve created a mind map of my book thoughts, a progress tracker and an inspiration board to keep me motivated. On Sunday I shared these with two of my three adult children. They are creatives, they understand the process and although they provide feedback, it’s done in a constructive way. I found myself trying to share the same information with my eldest son, but I felt his resistance.
He’s heard my ramblings before, my dreams. Does he really believe what I say any longer? I’m not sure. I’ve promised all three of them that I’ll have a first draft of my book finished for them to read by Christmas. Consequently the reality of what I’m trying to achieve is currently setting in big time. The destructive doubts are trying to push their way in. Do I really believe that I can do this?
I so desperately want to believe that I can, that my words will have meaning, that I can connect with readers in a way that I feel I must. And that’s what’s at the bottom of this, it’s not a question of whether I think I can do this. My inner creative child is demanding that I must. You see, I don’t have three children, I have four.
As a result of working my way though The Artists Way, I gave birth to my inner creative child. My precious, precocious, time hungry creative child arrived into this world, like any new-born, demanding to be fed and nurtured constantly. Until now I’ve been protecting her, I’m nervous for her future and what it my hold. She’s sensitive and vulnerable, but also courageous and marches forward relentlessly. She’s become my leader and I must follow wherever she takes me, I have no choice.
But oh my goodness what a journey. I’m having the time of my life, following my intuition, my gut instincts and simply trusting that my inner creative child knows what she’s doing.
So am I deluded? Perhaps. Totally mad? Absolutely. Can I write? I’ve no idea. That will be up to my other three children and you, lovely readers, to decide.