And so it is, after a Friday night that has turned into an early Saturday morning, that I find myself awake, in the silence and darkness of night, wanting to write something. Needing to write something.
It’s fair to say that I’ve neglected this blog of late. That perhaps I’ve been in the thick of it a little too much. It’s easy to get swept up – in work and plans and all sorts of busy. And it’s even easier to make excuses. So I won’t make any.
What I will say is that it’s nice to have something to go back to. A place to find again. For me, writing is a place. A little pocket of the world that is all my very own.
The thing is that, like being in any place or pocket in the world for too long, sometimes you just need to get away. To refresh and recharge and reboot. So every now and again I lose my way – for a few days or weeks or months – and if I do it’s because I need to. Because there are things that need to be seen and felt, things out there that need to be discovered.
The problem is I’m always slightly disappointed with what I find, and the truth is, nothing is really as good as my world. Nothing really compares to the rush of creating a perfect sentence, or placing an emotion in the form of words so eloquently on a page. There’s no way to replicate the feeling of a finished piece of prose you’re happy with. Or of something that might, just maybe, change someone else. Help someone else. Resonate with someone else.
I always find writing to be so self-indulgent. Which is part of the reason I ebb and flow – because I don’t think I should spend so much time doing it, or enjoying it, because honestly, is it supposed to feel this good? Is it supposed to flow so easily? I find nothing difficult about writing, nothing awkward about it, and that scares me.
It’s not something that I plan, or equate, or manipulate. I usually start a piece with no solid idea of how to end it, but somehow it works. Somehow it happens. And what a rush that is. What a rush to make something out of nothing. To mark a page. To leave a scar, maybe heal a wound.
No, nothing, not anything, is as good as my world.
I won’t make any excuses, or even promises for that matter, but I will say that I’m much more flow and a lot less ebb and that’s a very good thing to feel. And a very good place to be. In my pocket, my little pocket, of the world.
One thought on “My Little Pocket of The World.”
A lovely piece of writing Sandi. I have a picture of you in the quiet writing away. That is the wonderful thing about having a craft – you can escape, find or (re)discover, return or go to when the timing is right for you. Your comment, “I always find writing to be so self-indulgent which is part of the reason I ebb and flow” is so self aware – what a wonderful insight to put out there and give voice too. We have been programmed to not spend time doing things that feel good, bring enjoyment & that we are naturally talented. So instead we withhold these things.
Rebecca Leigh from smart fresh writing wrote a piece on a similar theme, unfortunately I have been unable to locate the link to the article but here is a link to her site.
Indulge & enjoy yourself in something that obviously brings you so much joy.