Today I feel a bit like the Fool of the Tarot Deck -- ready to walk off the cliff in pursuit of something I find a little risky and by undertaking something most likely to be difficult.
These are troubled times when fear is always around the corner. I recently lost my job, married and moved across country and re-designed my life. But it is times like these where one must enhance their courage, embrace some risk-taking, and face the creative expression needed to open up new areas in life. There is much cause for concern these days. But there is just as much wonder, awe, and curiosity. We never know what's in the future, but like the Fool, we must blindly go forward.
Quite by chance, I discovered the public library in my new city and felt instantly wealthy at the notion that I could check out a hundred books at any given time. I only reached a record of thirty-three books at once. But more importantly, even if unemployed, I allowed myself the time to invest in a new future. I was looking into anything but writing, knowing I could use it as a transferrable skill. I wanted to keep the field wide open. No matter what I chose to check out, I was amused to see the path always came back to one major interest: Putting words on a page.
And by the time I saw this trend I was busy researching lily ponds and terrariums and . . . I just put the books down. I gave up on terrariums and went back to my roots. I began to read about the origins of the written word. About the power of words. I began to rediscover the sacred roots of writing, one dusty tome at a time. These tomes were discovered in the folklore section, the art history section, the poetry section, and in places you wouldn't expect -- even lily ponds and terrariums.
Words have always chosen me, often against my will. I could just say I am a writer, but that phrase is inaccurate to the experience. It's more realistic to say that words come with a club and drag me to the computer; held hostage to their great new ideas because I can type and they don't have the necessary digits. Words are always there, good times or bad. There were times in my career when I was paid handsomely for my work -- enough to purchase a house had I been wise. And there were times when I was quite happy to live off soup and Saltines, trying to crochet with re-purposed yarn, only to be suddenly accosted by words that would not wait, and who did not care if I ever saw a penny for what they dictated to me during that evening.
By now it is almost cliche to say that the Muse is fickle and cannot be controlled. But as much as I've heard it, I've meditated upon that fact very little during my long career. The Sacred Muse cannot be controlled, it can only be invited. It does not operate on the dollar sign. When I considered a title with subheading for this blog, I was tempted to: The Way of the Word, or, Why I Write It Anyway, Knowing It Won't Sell. A close contender was The Way of the Word: A Starving Gal's Vicious Cycle.
Tough, wry perhaps, but that is the truth of it for many writers. I know I'm not alone here. In the beginning, words were sacred. Those chosen by the Muse to carry out The Great Story did not have to sing for their supper; it was because they sang that supper was therefore provided. They were recognized descendants of a great tradition and the guests of eager Kings or Chiefs. They carried all the epics, long genealogies, sagas and myth. They wove clans together by the mere act of storytelling. They were the carriers of identity, large and small. Their words carried the same power ours do today. We are the same creatures, though the world has changed, we carry the same responsibilities.
Some things I will be looking at here on this blog include: the power of words; the nature of storytelling; the role of the storyteller; ancient ways in a modern world. In this world, I am a beginner. I welcome you to come step over the cliff with me
These are troubled times when fear is always around the corner. I recently lost my job, married and moved across country and re-designed my life. But it is times like these where one must enhance their courage, embrace some risk-taking, and face the creative expression needed to open up new areas in life. There is much cause for concern these days. But there is just as much wonder, awe, and curiosity. We never know what's in the future, but like the Fool, we must blindly go forward.
Quite by chance, I discovered the public library in my new city and felt instantly wealthy at the notion that I could check out a hundred books at any given time. I only reached a record of thirty-three books at once. But more importantly, even if unemployed, I allowed myself the time to invest in a new future. I was looking into anything but writing, knowing I could use it as a transferrable skill. I wanted to keep the field wide open. No matter what I chose to check out, I was amused to see the path always came back to one major interest: Putting words on a page.
And by the time I saw this trend I was busy researching lily ponds and terrariums and . . . I just put the books down. I gave up on terrariums and went back to my roots. I began to read about the origins of the written word. About the power of words. I began to rediscover the sacred roots of writing, one dusty tome at a time. These tomes were discovered in the folklore section, the art history section, the poetry section, and in places you wouldn't expect -- even lily ponds and terrariums.
Words have always chosen me, often against my will. I could just say I am a writer, but that phrase is inaccurate to the experience. It's more realistic to say that words come with a club and drag me to the computer; held hostage to their great new ideas because I can type and they don't have the necessary digits. Words are always there, good times or bad. There were times in my career when I was paid handsomely for my work -- enough to purchase a house had I been wise. And there were times when I was quite happy to live off soup and Saltines, trying to crochet with re-purposed yarn, only to be suddenly accosted by words that would not wait, and who did not care if I ever saw a penny for what they dictated to me during that evening.
By now it is almost cliche to say that the Muse is fickle and cannot be controlled. But as much as I've heard it, I've meditated upon that fact very little during my long career. The Sacred Muse cannot be controlled, it can only be invited. It does not operate on the dollar sign. When I considered a title with subheading for this blog, I was tempted to: The Way of the Word, or, Why I Write It Anyway, Knowing It Won't Sell. A close contender was The Way of the Word: A Starving Gal's Vicious Cycle.
Tough, wry perhaps, but that is the truth of it for many writers. I know I'm not alone here. In the beginning, words were sacred. Those chosen by the Muse to carry out The Great Story did not have to sing for their supper; it was because they sang that supper was therefore provided. They were recognized descendants of a great tradition and the guests of eager Kings or Chiefs. They carried all the epics, long genealogies, sagas and myth. They wove clans together by the mere act of storytelling. They were the carriers of identity, large and small. Their words carried the same power ours do today. We are the same creatures, though the world has changed, we carry the same responsibilities.
Some things I will be looking at here on this blog include: the power of words; the nature of storytelling; the role of the storyteller; ancient ways in a modern world. In this world, I am a beginner. I welcome you to come step over the cliff with me
No comments:
Post a Comment