IT'S BEGINNING TO BUG ME!

 

By the time I reached junior high school, I knew I was a writer. I wrote my way through my life, not caring if I ever published what I wrote. It was only important to me that I kept writing. Writing allowed me time to myself, precious time to sort thoughts and feelings, to explore imagination, and to think as rapidly as I chose, not having to slow my communication to another person's capacity to understand. Writing allowed me to put my thoughts into the world and allowed the reader to consider those thoughts at their leisure without pressure. I much preferred writing to talking. I considered early on that I might have to get published in order to be heard. Although I had thoughts I longed to share with others, I had no desire to be “known”. Popularity, like celebrity, allows no room for privacy, and without privacy, respect falters.

When I was in my 50's I saw that someone else wrote one of the books I was going to write. At first, I felt sad. My ego had to take time to grieve. I got past that, read her book, appreciated the way she put it all together, and recommended it to anyone who would listen. In time, as I continued to mature, I realized if I didn't write “my” books, someone else would. Life lessons are meant to be shared. The woman who wrote that book had credentials to back her up and was well enough connected in the world to gain a vast audience. That the concepts she wrote about were made accessible to many people was far more important than my gaining publication.

It was also in my 50's that I became active on the Internet. I entered the land of blogging and experienced the joy of writing and having others read what I wrote. I didn't feel any need to be paid for my efforts. As far as I was concerned, I was published.

And now? Now I am in my 70's. I spent a few years on a spoken word circuit and became known in my area. I lead writer's workshops. When I reached 70, I began drawing and painting. My interests have put me in touch with other artists and writers who are now nudging me strongly to publish! I have the time. I have professional people willing to back my efforts. I even have a nest egg set aside, so I can self-publish if I choose to do so.  I'm running out of excuses.

NO ONE WARNED ME

 

I have a one-bedroom apartment that has begun to resemble the beginnings of a Hoarder episode so I am sorting and tossing a lot. It was packed but well organized...then I took up art. Now my art supplies are more important to me than anything else, but I could use a barn with shelves up and down the walls. Sigh. The added problem with developing an interest in creating art is the physical supplies I use do not go away. The paint goes on the paper or canvas and then there is a work of art to store! Oh! My! I should have taken up cooking. At least those ingredients disappear in time. If I wasn't creative in other areas, there would be enough room...but my sewing supplies need a room of their own. Sigh.

This is supposed to be my old age. I had planned on kicking back and reading a lot. I've gathered a library full of books to meet that purpose. That would be fine if that's all I did! The thought of parting with my books is as painful as parting with my art and sewing supplies.

Then there are my handwritten journals and sketchbooks.

I think I am going to have to accept anew that, while I can sort and straighten regularly, I am not going to have a typical home. My bedroom became the sewing/craft room immediately when I moved here. Now my living room/dining area has become my art studio. I need to surrender and give up the thought of having a normal home, or find a much larger place to live. A barn would be nice.

As I do this major Spring sorting, I can see that my plants will have to go. I need the space. I gave away my aquariums yesterday. I may have to part with my collection of materials, sewing machine, and the rest of my sewing supplies. Something has to give. I have books I want to read, books I need to write, and ART I want to create. There are fewer years ahead of me than behind me. This apartment has become a tiny creative factory. I eat and sleep at work!