Lofty Dreams

Tired.  Long day.  Wanted to do so many things.  Got lots done and was definitely distracted.  It happens ...often.  I wake up inspired, then I get caught in the minutiae.  I think that, somehow, if I just get this done, or that done, then I'll have cleared space for myself.  Guess what?  Doesn't happen.  The To-Do list is endless.  Crossing one thing off is like a grain of sand on the beach.  There’s so much more.

Was feeling very grounded and introspective this morning.  Stopped at Starbucks after dropping my son off at his Driver Training Course, then headed to the Lake to sit with my introspectiveness.  I felt the pull to write...and why do I believe that the inspired moment will last, or that I can recreate it later.  Somehow I think that what is coming through me is from me, and it will last or be easily recalled.  In the moment it feels real so I believe it.  Then, once again, it fades and is gone.  I get tapped on the shoulder.  Whispered to, in my ear, and what do I do?  I shush it away like a bothersome housefly.  The inspired moment is gone.  I want to force myself to recall something, anything.  I get bits and pieces, but nothing close to what it was this morning.

I write because it feels good, easy, comfortable.  Writing is my thing, yet I am intimidated by it - not my writing, of course.  I am intimidated by the title.  To be an author would be an amazing treat.  To be like Elizabeth Gilbert, having written one successful book after another.  Wow.

So many words make up a book and yet all anyone ever does, who writes a book, is just let out details of their lives onto "paper".  Everyday details.  Is seems so easy ...and daunting.  Everyone that I recall paying attention to as a writer has some training in the matter.  Having gone to school, majored in English or Journalism or some such thing.  Having come from a family of writers.

Something in me feels equal to them and yet another part of me feels so inadequate.  That voice in my head that likes to feed my fears, reminds me that I have no qualifications to write a book.  Who am I to have such lofty dreams, to think that I can produce something of that magnitude and deliver it eloquently and with humour?  Deep down, there is a part of me that thinks I can.