Image: Mille Sanders
Welcome to A Writer's Journey, a continuation of 60 days of journal entries leading up to the publication of my book,The Path: A Journey Into The Light: The Journey From Fear To Love. (The first five posts can be found here.)
I felt the need to create a writing category on The Path blog because aside from being a spiritual teacher, I am also a writer and a newly published author.
Although my book is about my spiritual practice as a channel and guide for The Path: A Journey Into The Light, the process I underwent from conception to completion was that of a writer. One whose life was sometimes consumed with uncertainty and struggles, from finding and composing the right words to honing my craft and believing in myself and my dream that finishing my first book and becoming a published author, was real, doable, and within reach.
I'm excited to share my experience walking the path of growth and self-discovery as a writer and human being.
Writing Prompt: There Was A Time
There was a time when things were much different, and disaster didn't loom like an unwanted visitor who won't accept no for an answer. Tamara didn't know what to do about anything anymore. She was unsure, just like all the others who were left wondering if there was anything they could do after the great tragedy.
Indeed, nothing would make a difference about the inevitable crisis that promised to be their undoing. But everyone expected Tamara to know. After all, she was a leader and a way-seer in the other world. Once she discovered and embraced her life's purpose, she promised to find a way to the other side of darkness and pain for all who sought her guidance.
Her vision was her destiny; she could see the roots of the injury that was everyone's undoing. She could see why the world was facing the disaster that threatened it. Although she predicted this outcome, she could not prevent it. That would have taken the collective effort of many human beings to make significant and profound changes in their beliefs and behaviors.
It had always been clear that human beings believed themselves to be essentially followers, and none of their chosen leaders before her ever told them that, one day, they would have to learn that they could think and do for themselves. When the time came to act––or to face certain destruction––they would have to do way more than plodding along, like drugged sheep, heading for the edge of the cliff.
Tamara was a seer with a passion and a mission. She didn't always know how the path would unfold, but she knew that following the guidance of love was her only purpose and insurance for being––and staying––alive. Her heart, broken many times before she learned how to stop allowing others to break it, was the center of her universe, and her feelings, which she knew spoke the truth of her soul, guided her feet on her path.
Tamara loved human beings, but they rarely felt the same about her. It took her a long time to accept the fact that, indeed, people thought it was appropriate always to try to blame the messenger. There were so many instances when she tried, again and again, to get them to understand that it was fruitless and unproductive to blame her for speaking the truth they, thus far, refused to hear or see.
I just had an 'aha' moment. I could not find my voice or light upon anything to write about that was clear evidence that I am a writer. I had become a dry well, the endless blank page with nothing to fill it, the seeming end of the road of my creative expression that all those who have accepted that writing is their path experience.
I find comfort in this blankness, for at least it means that when I write, I will come from a completely different place within myself than I have ever done before. This blankness is like a brand-new notebook, just waiting to be filled with the richness of my thoughts and feelings. After all, I've never bought a new notebook that I didn't fill up with words.
I know I will write again. But, you know what, right now, at this moment, I am following a writing prompt. Maybe I'm not writing about what I think I should be writing about, but I'm writing just the same. Something is happening here. It's peeking over my shoulder, so it's not in my forward view. If I turn my head slightly to the right and cast my eyes upon my shoulder, I don't see it, but I can sense it's there. So, whatever I do next, it's coming up on the right.
You know what, I think––no, I don't even want to try and predict what's coming next. But I understand I am establishing a foundation and a flow for my writing voice here. I mean, I'm writing, yes? Next, I must figure out something I want to write about. As much as I would like to return to where I used to be when I wrote my novels, I can't get back there again. I am a different person and, therefore, a different writer, so when I reconnect with those projects, I must find my way back to them from here.
Can I say that I love writing what I'm writing right now? Why? Because it feels and even looks like what I have always imagined and dreamt I would be doing while writing some incredible project: my thoughts would be flowing, and my fingers would be flying over the keys of my computer—without hesitation or doubt. All I can say is that if this is writing, this is fun! I could do this all day. I don't feel anxious and afraid. I'm just writing, that's all. And I love thinking, pondering, reflecting, speaking, sharing, and writing.
I don't know exactly where this is leading, but I'm finally getting to the good part after a long and often painful struggle. I can only imagine that if I keep writing like this without any particular agenda––a plan of action will surface in my mind and follow my thoughts onto the page. Wow! I love the way my fingers feel when typing fast and with purpose. Striking and pressing, quickly and confidently, all these words as they come into my mind.
All I can say is that I hope when I'm writing what I envision and desire, I can write it like this. Fearlessly and without hesitation about just saying what I hear, feel, or see. My question is: Can I write a story like this? Is that possible? Can I finish my novels? Or should I begin to think about writing articles and essays? I don't know yet, and I won't even begin to try to answer that question now.
I feel more content than ever to follow my creative process and watch and observe how my creative expression unfolds. Things are changing. I just wrote 1,000 words in this sitting after writing over 1,000 earlier today. This new writing routine just started a few days ago. Something is happening…