I recently saw a quote saying ‘I believe that what we want to write wants to be written’. I believe that too. I believe that words and stories have their own agency and evolve in ways that we can’t (and shouldn’t attempt to) predict.
I started my day thinking I might write about stepping up. About stepping out of my comfort zone. After all, at the end of your comfort zone is where life supposedly begins.
My act of stepping up was mailing a copy of my book to a publisher. I wrote a children’s book for my goddaughter’s second birthday some eighteen months ago and I have been wanting to get it published ever since. And towards the end of last year, it finally felt right to pursue the project. Anyway, I went to the post office this morning, and the book has gone on its merry way.
But by the time I got to writing this evening, I was feeling rather less pleased with myself. Pretty frazzled actually. Somehow the last hour before Lilly’s bedtime got the better of me. I was rushing to get various outstanding travel arrangements booked and she was getting tired and fussy. And then bumped her head to boot. Talk about feeling instantaneously guilty about having had your attention in a different place. And I mean guilty… it’s completely heart-wrenching to watch your little girl sob her eyes out. So I was feeling upset as a consequence even hours later after she had gone to bed and I was on the couch with the laptop. And being upset is no frame of mind to write. As a matter of fact, it’s not a great frame of mind for anything.
So I journalled about it. About why I sometimes get so caught up doing things that don’t matter when what really mattered in that moment was to spend time with Lilly. Then I went into the bedroom and cuddled up to watch her sleep. For ages. And told her I was sorry. I had a cuddle on the couch with Jack who’s not supposed to be on the couch. I had a long chat with Rob. Things that mattered.
So in the end a day that started with stepping up ended with stepping back. And that’s all good.