It´s Writing Day.
Struggling with characters that, suddenly, demand to be in my (new) book. They whisper, at first, like ghosts; then they sing. If I ignore them, they show up in my dreams and turn them into nightmares until I accept their self-invitation. I only fight to win and there´s no winning this game, unless I do what my opponent wants.
Plus: reality versus imagination. Which ones is truer? Which one is the most overrated?
Some times, I get stuck in a scene. It´s done but I feel it´s not complete. Something – or someone – is missing. Where is she, he, it? I search my memory for that missing link. After all, this book is based on my own realities, my journey in Egypt and, yes, beyond. It´s not fiction although it feels like it. I search and search and search. Nothing. Nada. Niente. Mafish haga. I would despair, if I could afford the luxury. I can´t. So I just keep writing, not demanding stuff The Muses cannot deliver, but being there, doing my part, playing my side of the game.
Other times, I leave it – sort of. I read the missing leg scene. I keep it in front of my eyes and I head for a walk, a movie theatre, the beach, lunch with a friend – anything that keeps me off the page. I allow the REAL writer to work (my unconscious). I know it´s from there, from the depths of my mind, or even from above it, that the real goodies come from. Sometimes, we just need to let it breathe. Let go. Allow it to happen by itself. In the process, I learn the most difficult of arts: paying attention to the signs, listening, receiving. Oh, yeah, RECEIVING. Learning how to receive is DA thing.
It´s funny how writing is perceived as an “intellectual” activity; a kind of “it´s all in your head” job. I couldn´t disagree more. Pardon my ignorance (that I am: aware of my ignorance) but writing is holistic. I don´t want to sound too New Age. But I may sound like it. Oh, screw it! I am New Age. I dance – and write – with my mind but that´s just a part of it. I dance – and write – with my blood, my heart, my sensuality, my solitude and my joy. I dance – and write – with my body, my soul, my fingers and my skin. I dance – and write – with those unknown, uncathegorized, mysterious places of myself.
Please, don´t tell me writing is an “intellectual job”. It´s just human, divine, hands on dirt job and wings wide open job.
Here we go, running away from shelves.
And here I am, hiding from the sun, coffee by my side and an open head (and heart, I hope) by the other. It´s WRITING day. It´s RECEIVING day. Always.