Since March 2009 I have kept a daily journal, a practice that stuck after I completed The Artist's Way. I now have a gorgeous stack of completed notebooks perched on a shelf in my closet--I fantasize about the day when enough time has passed that I can cull all the juicy bits and write my book.
I knew I was a writer since, well, since I learned to write. When I was seven I used to write stories on 3x5 cards, and my best friend and I would collaborate on stapled together picture books we'd write on legal pads. We didn't watch much TV in my house, and every summer, I would regularly read double, even triple the amount of books on the recommended summer reading lists. In 8th grade I won a contest for an essay I wrote on Madame Bovary (I know, kind of a weird pick for a 14 year old). Occasionally I would get in trouble for my reading choices--that was the extent of my precociousness through my childhood. Whenever anyone asked me "what do you want to be when you grow up?" my answer was, invariably, "a writer."
Somewhere along the line, I decided that being a writer was a silly choice, that I could never be good enough to be published. I stopped writing, outside of what was necessary to get through high school and college. I kept a journal sporadically, never being consistent about it for more than two or three days at a time.
I've always been anxious and a worrywart (see here and here); after a few weeks of Morning Pages it struck me how beneficial it was to start my day by getting all that chitter chatter out of my brain, through my pen and on to paper. I could then access my day from a place of presence, now that I had already attended to the usual concerns and worries. As time went on, and I continued to learn how to dwell more in my body and less and less in my overactive head, I began to use this practice as a way to fuel my creativity. I can't tell you how many times a spark of inspiration at 6:30 in the morning would later transform into a lively theme during yoga class or some of my best creative writing here on this blog.
As I reconnected to the great love of my youth, I reconnected with my GUTS. It's so funny to me now--as if I had a choice in the matter! As if I could actually decide that I could never be a writer. I see now that it has never been a choice; it's simply what has always been so. I didn't choose to write; it chose me. I am a writer regardless whether I ever get published. It is as intrinsic to my identity as is "woman" or "daughter."
This practice has also reawakened my own artistry. For the past 15 years (at least) if you would have asked me if I was an artist, I would have said "Hell no." I'd look around and see my friends painting and drawing and making things with their hands and I longed for that mythical one day to arrive where my own talent would be revealed. To look back now and see that it was always there, patiently waiting to be acknowledged...
Now, I show up every day for the muse. She will never be ignored, ever again. It sounds dramatic but this practice is literally my life-line-it keeps me honest and sane.
If you are curious about The Artist's Way, reach out to me. Or, just buy the book. You can find it used for less than $10 and even if you aren't a writer, I guarantee it will revive any dormant creative impulses. I especially recommend it if you are like me--someone who doesn't consider themselves the "creative type." I promise you it's in there--you just gotta show up.
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