For as long as I've known myself, almost 33 years now, (hint, hint, my birthday is coming up...I'm open to presents, hugs and various libations) I have had a book floating around in my soul. Over the years it's made its presence known. As you well know, I have writing scattered around through my past, much of which has never seen the light of day. This past week though, THE BOOK has been more palpable, more omnipresent. I sat down last week and wrote for a few hours. It came through me, as if I were possessed by a providential muse of sorts. And I let it come.
I now have what I think is the basic structure for THE BOOK. It will take some time to flesh out I'm sure. But it is begun. And it's exciting.
My creative process continues to fascinate me. I have a tendency to keep a safe emotional distance from what I write, not allowing myself to fully express what I'm thinking or feeling. Last week showed some differences in this pattern though. There was a rawness to it, a letting go, an abandoning of the need for censoring along the way. I see this as my heart learning what it means to open to life, to trust, to be fully present and alive.
I read the first draft of THE BOOK to my new roomie. As I was reading, my throat began to get raspy and close up. I was verklempt by my own words. I had written them but this was my first time reading them through, and out loud, which is something I rarely do. There was this feeling of vulnerability and shock and awe at what I'd written. There was stuff there I didn't even know I'd written. Stuff I didn't even know I'd felt until the words came out of my mouth. It was freeing, exhilarating and a bit scary. But I pressed on and when I'd finished reading, I smiled. THE BOOK had made its first appearance out in the world and it felt good. I was no longer a slave to it. And it was no longer a slave to me.