Keep out of the ruts; a rut is something which;
If traveled too much, becomes a ditch.
Today I am writing this while sitting at my kitchen table. I had finally accepted the fact that I was indeed a writer. This revelation came to me after many years of denial. Now, it seems that I am living a very different way of life.
Yesterday, while at an auction sale I sat in the truck writing about the auction sale. It was cold and miserable so I was huddled down in the truck and I wrote two stories. Oh, I am not going to complain about that. I had found myself in a writing slump for a while now, something a writer never likes to experience. I finally was back to writing and was so happy about that.
I had no doubt that those stories were going to be shared someday, with someone. After I had written those stories, I had this nagging feeling. That same nagging feeling came back to me later that evening. While I sat at my kitchen table, transferring those stories from my hand written notes and on to my computer it hit me like a hammer over the head. I was now living in a fictional world. That non-fictional world I have always lived and wrote about seemed to have morphed into a weird mix of fiction and non-fictional stories. There is no way to deny that now.
I have always written about auctions while I sat in the middle of that particular auction. I would experience the crowd and the feelings of those moments. I had almost missed the joy of jumping into the middle of this auction and mingling with the crowd, something I had always done. I was sitting in the truck writing. I was sitting in the truck writing about experiencing the auction, not actually experiencing the auction. It was to become a piece of fiction. I was writing what I thought I was feeling, not what I actually felt.
The more I thought about this new enlightenment, the more examples popped into my head. Instead of hiking, or snowshoeing into the bush this past winter, something that I have always enjoyed so much, I had been all winter sitting at my kitchen table. I had been writing, about hiking or snowshoeing in the bush. I had inklings of this when my pants showed the effects and hazards of writing and eating, instead of actually getting out there and hiking or snowshoeing. I am sure you all know what I am talking about here.
Instead of experiencing the thrill of the city, on a recent trip there, I was writing about what I thought, not what I did. There was so much going on I was exhausted, so it was so much easier for me to write about it than actually do it. That is such a lame excuse now that I think about it. Not that my stories were untrue, it was just that I was not actually experiencing or feeling them. I was only writing about them. Not once did I have to leave the seat I was sitting comfortably in, to get the story. Sad I think.
I have to tell you that I love being a writer. I also have come to the conclusion that I am not yet ready to be a writer who writes so much about life, to prove to her and to others that she is an actual writer, that she forgets to experience that life. I will continue to write but I do not want to forget why I write in the first place.
I must tell you I did get out of that truck and mingled in that crowd at the auction. I experienced that life I have been missing by writing, without experiencing. I do have those stories and will be sharing them just as I always have, but right now I am out experiencing what I have been missing, while not trying to think about the story. I am back to actually experiencing what I live, not writing what I wish, and then I will write about it.