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inspiration, writing

Writing a Book and My Inspiration List

November 3, 2015

mary oliver the world I live in

 

“A book writes itself. You are just the hand that puts everything on paper.” – Bangambiki Habyarimana

 

The first time I wrote a book, I had the story rolling around in my bones for years. And then one day, I came out of a meditation with a whole first line and a character and a voice, and within 5 minutes, I sat down to write. It was a difficult, ten year process from that moment to the moment of publication. A process that mostly involved me wrestling with my own fear and demons. But in the end, I wrote a book!

Three days ago I sat down to begin NaNoWriMo. I had an idea and a character, but it never felt right enough to start – so I didn’t. I thought that the problem was me. Within ten minutes of sitting down to begin writing, my idea and my character went out the window. A voice came through and demanded to tell the story herself. She has been talking ever since – and it’s all I can do to keep up. I don’t know where it is going, but after more than 6,000 words, I don’t think she is going to give me up anytime soon. I feel possessed.

When I wrote the last book, I wrote in the mornings before work. I thought that that is when I write the best, so when I found myself finally sitting down in the late afternoon on the first, I thought I had already messed things up. Turns out this character likes to work as the sun goes down.

So all bets are off.

Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know that there are no rules to writing. There are no shoulds or have-tos when it comes to creation.  The important thing is that you show up. Show up and see what happens. Sometimes what happens is magic.

 


 

In the past few months, lots of inspiration has come my way, and it’s not just any inspiration, but deep, rich, honest calling outs; the rallying call of wild women from all over the internet. So rather than keeping them all to myself, I thought I would add my voice to the call. Because every woman joining the call makes it louder.

And every woman creating from that place makes better art.

Mary Oliver’s new book of poetry. The poem above speaks to my soul. I am all about the Maybe.

How to Talk to Your Muse – Chris Zydel

The Year of the She Wolf – Anna Lovind

What it Takes to Write – Pixie Lighthorse

When You Write – Mary Beth Bonfiglio

The Year of the Witch – Pamela J Grossman

Why We Remember – Briana Saussy

Big Magic – Elizabeth Gilbert

Distaff Lines – another word for matrilineal lines.

Tokens – Your Edge. Our Edge. Dragonfly. by Maya Hackett

Burning Times – National Film Board of Canada (+ the other two films in this series on women’s spirituality.)

Today I Rise – an amazing amazing video. If you watch nothing else, watch this and the next one on the list.

Ms Marianne Williamson raising the call like no one else can.

My Sacred Feminine Pinterest Board has so so much more inspiration from so many more women.

And this may not seem like a rallying call – but I am binge watching Nashville as a way to cleanse my mental palate. Sometimes soft and sweet is just as inspirational.

So what inspires YOU? Please let me know. I’d love to add to this list!

xo

 

writing

Create it. Who are you not to?

October 29, 2015

“Art is not meant to be created in stolen moments only.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I used to think that when I had more time, I would write. I used to think that when I moved, had the right desk, the right space, and uninterrupted hours, that I would naturally get back to writing my next book.

Turns out that even when you change everything, you don’t change. You still have the same fears and hang-ups and worries and silly inner voices that you have always had. They don’t go away. They get louder.

When I had a boss and was a boss, I had externally imposed deadlines. I had people counting on me for answers and figures and decisions and ideas. I had to be prepared and excited and inspired and armed with information. I had to turn up. There was no room for my fears of not being good enough. There was no room for insecurities. There was absolutely no room for ‘who do you think you are?’

Which brings me to today. To here. To the edge of the writing of my next book. I’ve started it dozens of times. I even have the beginning written. In fact, I sent the first page to a few friends to read and heard back from them that it was really powerful and they couldn’t wait to read more.

So of course, I stopped writing. I panicked. Because who do I think I am to write about the things that will come up in this book? Who am I to write about women and power and witchcraft and ancestral lines and matrilineal wounds and magic?

But the signs kept coming. Write it. Write the Book. Follow this path where it leads. You’ve been chosen to write this.

Who am I?

I am a woman who is inspired to write a story. And that story is about women and power and witchcraft and ancestral lines and matrilineal wounds and magic. It found me. It asked to be written.

Who am I to deny it? To turn it down? To not write it?

And so I am here to tell you that I am writing it. And because I (apparently) need some structure and a deadline, I have signed up for NaNoWriMo this year. So I will not be here very much in November, because I will be writing.

Who I am not to?

I’m going in.

xo

P.S. What creation or inspiration are you avoiding? Who are you not to?

emerge, writing, yes

Lost & Found: One Spiritual Practice

April 27, 2015

The soul can’t be explained or understood. Is it, after all, your divine Self, and divinity is wild, untamable – more vast and magnificent than our minds can grasp. Whatever idea or image you hold in your mind of the soul or the Divine is by definition too small. That’s why we feel so compelled to explore these fields of the soul. We long for the mystery. – Janet Conner

 

Meghan Genge writingThere were always all of these wonderful things I was going to do once I had time. I was going to walk more, and do more yoga, and meditate more, and eat better. I was going to do all of those things because somehow I thought that they would make me more spiritual. They would bring me closer to the Divine, to God, to that best part of me who was nice and made really good decisions and had a great attitude most of the time.

Insert giggle/snort here.

Turns out that when I packed for Costa Rica, I packed myself. I packed the me who gets grumpy, and wants to eat Nutella more than she wants carrots, and the me who has a lot of yoga to do before yoga makes her feel blissful (right now it makes me feel angry), and who is a little afraid of walking because walking is a bit scary. There are things lurking under the fallen leaves both in reality and in my imagination that want to nibble on me.

So until a few days ago I was getting really frustrated. I was wasting time. I hadn’t landed in Costa Rica and then morphed instantly into a glorious Blue Morpho. I was getting grumpier by the day, reading in great gulping novel-sized afternoons, and wishing that I could somehow be different.

And then it happened.

I got up on Friday morning, picked up my pen and a battered notebook, and I started to write. And within one sentence, I remembered: Writing is my spiritual practice. 

My simple connection had gotten lost in the sparkle on my Instagram feed, the gloss on my Pinterest pages, the bendy-holiness on Facebook, and my need to be different than I am. Yes, I will continue to meditate and do yoga – movement and stillness are as important to my growth as words – but for me, my doorway to that connection and my worship happens on the page.

When I arrive at the page, say a prayer, and pick up my pen, I slip easily into a conversation with my Soul, with The Mystery, with God, with whatever you think It is. And it is a conversation that is most definitely two-sided. We contemplate. We argue. We breathe. We bend. We talk. And I come out the other side different. Connected. Motivated. Altered. Writing doesn’t magically make me a shinier, nicer, better behaved version of myself, but instead I emerge a more grounded, honest, clear one. I’m the me that remembers that she is deeply, truly connected, so all of the rest of that ‘stuff’ can be seen with perspective and a lighter heart.

It’s magic. It’s a miracle.

How could I have forgotten? I was so busy comparing myself to other people’s spirituality, that I forgot about my own.

And so I will return to the page again and again, because writing is my practice.

It’s my holy.

It’s home.

xo