Somewhere along the line, I lost ‘it.’
My drive to see myself in print was still there. My passion for the story was there, obscured but still there. My inspiration was all around me, from the doll resembling the main character to the music I played. But none of that mattered, because I’d lost ‘it.’
In April, we went to see Trans-Siberian Orchestra and talk about getting bitch slapped. I could see ‘it.’ I could feel ‘it.’ I could damn near taste ‘it.’ Tears welled, heart pounded, the hair on my arms stood with an electrical charge I hadn’t felt in quite a while. The high they exuded was so intense my mind reeled.
What I saw and felt was unrestrained bliss and fulfillment; they were doing what they wanted to be doing. They not only reveled in what they were doing but also shared it, showing me the error of my ways and what I’d lost. I didn’t know what I’d lost until that moment. ‘It’ was the unbridled joy of sitting at the keyboard, doing what I wanted to do, write.
Somehow, somewhere I’d lost the pure joy I felt when I sat at the keyboard. Writing had become work. Work?! No, I’m not channeling Maynard G. Krebs, but I do empathize with him. Yes, writing is work, but when you have that unadulterated love in the mix, it doesn’t feel like work.
Now I’m off to sit in paradise and work…I mean do what I want to be doing.