The universe has sneaky ways to remind me of things
I’ve conveniently forgotten. Kudos to the universe. It’s light-years ahead of
me in the smarts’ department ( like that’s news).
The
first tap came last weekend when I spotted and purchased a
framed quote in a gift shop—more of a slap
than a tap. Here’s the quote:
“Promise me you will not spend so much time treading
water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly
forget, how much you have always loved to swim.” –Tyler Knot Gregson
The quote hangs in my bathroom, where I will read it
every morning.
The
second El Kabong came as I replanted a clump
of volunteer clover. A small grey rock with the word JOY etched on one side
fell from its hidey-hole in a stack of planters. This rock, a gift from a
friend many years ago, had vanished amidst the garden rubble. Add to this:
clover is associated with luck. Double whack.
The word JOY is one letter away from being the word JOB.
How many times recently have I transformed writing
into a job rather than a joy? Too many. Many seminars I’ve attended in the past
few years have focused on the “work” of writing. The phrase wormed into my
heart and my joyful creative life turned into a toil, a struggle, a JOB. Shame
on me for insulting the muses.
Third
knock on the noodle came via author Cheryl Strayed. I devoured
her creative nonfiction “Wild”, then moved on to order “Tiny Beautiful Things,”
a book filled with questions and answers once published as an advice column.
One selection reminded me to simply write…that it is my joy, my calling, my purpose. To quit
worrying about whether this book or that one will land in the hands of some New
York publisher: that is not my concern. So many things in this life are clearly
chance, fate… My mission is to WRITE THE BEST BOOK I CAN.
The importance of perfecting the craft can’t be downplayed. And
it gets both easier and harder, the longer I do it. The necessity of
approaching agents, yammering on Facebook and Twitter, and networking still
exists. No one is going to show up at my door, contract in hand, and sweep me
away in a limo. It’s up to me to do my part.
Yet…
I pledge to allow joy to overshadow jabber. My
clutch of muses—a temperamental inbred bunch who hate Southern humidity and
flee for Canada in late May—are back. Glad to see y’all. Missed you. Hope you’re
ready to dance, because this writer is ready to lead, or follow.
I don’t need a fourth clobber to get it. I’m smart
that way.
