I’ve been stuck lately. Seriously
handicapped in my ability to create, because in a creative field like writing,
everything I do, everything I produce, comes from inside of me. My head, my
heart, my innermost-hidden soul. And, um, turns out, it’s hard to dig into my
hidden soul when I’m trying so hard to just function in this entirely new
environment.
It’s a problem.
I’ve tried a lot of tricks that have
worked for me in the past. Working out. Going for a drive. Shopping. Long
bubble baths. Walking on the beach (which is new, and usually the most
inspiring thing I can think to do). Yeah. Not so much.
And then…
In cleaning off a shelf, I came
across my to-be-read pile, the one that has grown enormously since I moved, due
to the fact that I also haven’t done any reading. And I thought, “hey, can’t
hurt.” I picked one by an author who has always inspired me to be a better writer,
and I read a page. Then a chapter.
And I remembered all the reasons I
am inadequate, all the reasons why I will never write something so amazing as
what this author writes, and all the reasons why I should probably bury my head
in the sand (now that I live by a beach) and quit.
Then I opened my computer and got
back to work.
Because I also remembered that the
reasons I will never write the way that author writes is because I am ME. And I
can write something incredibly amazing and wonderful, but absolutely different
from her. I have the ability to do great things and to be awesome, all by
myself. And I am the only one who can figure out how to overcome my issues and
be better, be artistic and profound and better than remarkable.
I can be adequate.
It’s my choice.
And yours. Choose to be adequate.
And get back to work.
