Somehow I lost October and November. Sixty-one days evaporated from my calendar. Erased like dust in an etch-a-sketch. There one minute. Gone the next.
Between the great kitchen renovation project of 2015 followed closely on its heels by Thanksgiving, two months are a blur of construction dust, paint fumes, shopping and chopping.
December eased its way in this week and I welcomed it with open arms. I felt wide eyed and eager. Ready to return to the page and suss out the next work.
Yet, somehow, I’ve been as bad as the boys when I tell them to go brush their teeth and I find them in their room half undressed reading books or picking at the peeling skin on the bottoms of their feet claiming they were too distracted to do what I’d asked.
I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by holiday planning, grocery runs, Facebook, that episode of reality television on my DVR. It’s like I’ve lost all the discipline and work I’ve built up over the last year and am starting all over again.
Which I’m not. I have ideas. Too many ideas. Ideas seemingly so disparate I can’t figure out how they match up yet. And so I ignore them instead of sitting with them. Which is what I should be doing. Sitting with them. Listening to their whispers. Allowing them to marinate until they culminate into something.
But I’ve lost my trust. Part of it is the first work. As more distance is between me and it, I wonder if it’s “THE” work. The right work. The best work. It might be. But this idea of another. A new. A next. Maybe that’s where the magic is? Or not. Or maybe the magic is years from now and all of this is just training.
My six year old has been periodically writing a series of books (I think he’s up to six now) about a character he created called “Horsey Borsey.” Now Horsey Borsey tends to have adventures very similar to trips we take or events happening in our lives. He doesn’t let the fact that he just learned to read or that he can’t spell very many words stop him. He sits down and writes these stories as best he can. It might be a book of 20 pages where Horsey Borsey eats a lot of breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, then goes to bed before waking up to repeat it all again and again (and maybe even again) before the end. But he keeps writing. He writes and draws and staples them and then reads them over and over again.
I need to write like my six year old. Like I don’t know what I’m doing and that it doesn’t matter. That the mistakes and the repetition and the simplicity are part and parcel of the work.
For B, it’s all good. He knows that there will always be another Horsey Borsey book waiting to be written. And so he keeps writing them. Because that’s what he does.
I need to trust the momentum and keep moving forward. I need to trust my own fingers to deliver these new ideas and characters to a new page.
I need to keep writing. Because that’s what I do.
Distractions be damned.
(Right after lunch… )