All of us find ourselves delaying doing what we really know we ought to be doing and really want to be doing more of: writing. Procrastination gets to all of us from time to time. It is a kind of fear of the keyboard. We want it, desire it, and yet we are afraid of it at the same time. Each of us deals with this phenomenon in different ways. (1) Some become perfectionists. I can’t start until everything is perfect. The room has to be clean. The window needs cleaning. The pencils all need to be sharpened. The paper for the printer must be stacked neatly. The carpet needs to be vacuumed. (2) Some prioritize our primary goal downward. I can't start until the grand kids go home. I can’t start until after Christmas. There’s so much to do. Why is this? Basically I think it is just common, ordinary fear. Writing can be hard work at times. Some days the words just do not flow. Your brain goes flat. You want a word to use in a sentence, and your word database and vocabulary just sits there like a lump of concrete. You feel like “a senior moment” has just flown its cloud between you and the warm sunshine. The shiver runs down your back, and your fingers stop working. There are some things you can do to get out of this all too common rut. How do I know because I have been there, done that. A shot of caffein can help. Cola, coffee, or tea. Hot chocolate is nice. Finger exercises. Soak your hands in hot water. A short walk outside. Watching a cat play with string. Enjoy the cats enjoyment. Typing silly phrases. Try copying a favorite poem. Here is one of mine. I discovered it by accident. Dad passed away several years after my mother. They were married for well over fifty years. When going through his things, I found a folded 3 by 5 card heavily yellowed by age, and on the brink of falling apart, in his wallet. He was a man who had problems expressing his true, real feelings about others. He had carried this with him for avery long time. It is barely holding together because it has been opened to be read, folded and refolded so many times. I love you, not only for what you are. But for what I am when I am with you. I love you, not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out; I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish, weak things that you can’t help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find. I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life, not a tavern, but a temple; out of the works of my every day not a reproach, but a song. I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy. You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign. You have done it by being yourself. Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all. P.S. I love you. I do not know if my father wrote this himself. It is possible, but I tend to doubt it. If he did, he even here found it necessary to protect himself, if it should be found, by adding the tag: author unknown. What I know is that I, like him, find it very hard to cry. Reading this card nearly always brings me tears. What I know is, that it is difficult for a son, or daughter, to stand outside of a marriage and see your parents as warm, sexual beings. See them as people who cared deeply for each other, and who expressed it ways uncounted and unremarked by others, including yourself, for decades. I have shared it here with you for two reasons: (1) to preserve it, and (2) to use it as an illustration. That poem evokes my emotions. As a writer, you need to employ emotion. You have to feel emotion. Emotion starts the words to flowing. Emotion is a direct connection with language. The language of sharing love, and pain. You need to find, if you have not done so already, similar items. Poems, pictures, and stories. They may be sentimental like my example, or nothing but pure “mush”. Who cares? They are for you to have, and to use. They are a part of your tool box. You owe it to yourself to gather items like this around you. To be useful, tools need to be close to hand. Literally, handy. You must connect with others to be able to write stories that also connect with the reader. These are the true tools of the writer.
(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com
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