Monday, September 9, 2013

Day 280

I've got to catch something, before it buzzes off to oblivion.  I was doing the dishes and pondering on life.  The choices, the infinite choices, my inability to change anyone's mind.  Letting go of all control, except my own choices. 

I thought about selling our home after almost 9 years, about suddenly living in close proximity with the two people who gave me life.  I thought of broken relationships, about the brother I adore, and the sister in law, who I consider a sister.  And through the annuls of time, who I will always consider one. 

I thought about writing two skits in as many days, about getting a bag of apples for my trouble and how much that delights me.  I thought about writing to my sister in law, and why I write and somewhere deep inside, I know getting paid would be fabulous, but I knew that that's not why I do it.  I think people are impressed by novelists, by professional paid writers, but I think about what's given me the most joy in my writerly life and it's this:

Writing letters to my children and family.  Writing poems to my husband.  Writing to my friends so they know how I feel about them, not letting moments slip by, not letting the best form of expression I have go by the wayside especially when it pertains to life, love and relationships.  What good does a novel do me, if I don't write of the things of here, of now, of the people in front of my face, of the people I walk through life with.

This realization gave me a freedom.  Such a simple concept but a true one.  I have been writing in journals, letters, snippets here and there for one person here or there for as long as I can remember.  I think deep in my heart, I hoped my writing would impact a lot of people and now I realize that my writing only has to impact just one person at a time.  It can be that personal, it can be that unique.  What will matter more that on my epitaph I wrote the great American novel or that I wrote a note to a friend and shared my love, that my gift if you will, was written in my heart.

This won't stop me from writing and trying and querying and still trying to make a wave as opposed to what I used to consider just a ripple.  But the ripples add up and before you know it, there's an ocean that's moving and breathing and reaches and grows making its impact felt.  I will work for apples, but the apples don't matter.  A little girl running for SBO, matters, a sister in law who may or may not be in my life anymore, but who needs to hear that she's worth it and divine, matters.  A woman in the ward who is lonely and thinks no one sees her anymore, matters.  My family matters, my friends matter.  And you know what, I matter.  And if I don't write because of that, my writing is poorer for it.