So, I've been blogging every day for the last 50 or so. A tremendous accomplishment for me—I've never had a regular writing practice before. I now get the sadhana thing, the making a 40 commitment to something, that after 40 days it truly does become a part of who you are/what you do. I miss my early morning writing when I don't get to it. Like today. I'm now post yoga, post lunch, contemplating piles of laundry and a stack of paperwork that should have been dealt with months ago. In fact, I think within the very neat pile of papers stacked on my printer, is a parking ticket from last winter that we got in Brattleboro. It was $10 at the time but it's now up to $55. Sigh.
I've noticed an interesting thing happening lately. This writing practice has evolved the more comfortable I got with it. At the beginning, it was a strain to just sit and write. Every sentence, every thought before each sentence, was a struggle. I felt like I had to know where I was going before I started. And that's antithetical to the way I create. I'm never sure where I'll end up, but know that I'll recognize when I'm done. While working on FLOW, some were horrified by this. The word "horrified" as actually used. I believe "terrified" was too. But, this is how I've always worked, as a designer, as an illustrator, and writing as well. So these posts became free form ramblings that generally had a point and made sense in the end. Most were about angst, anxiety, inner turmoil, insecurity. I'm grateful to everyone out there who took time to read, think, comment on all I've been going through lately. It's been pretty intense, occasionally fabulous, I've met amazing new people, have been stretched to my limits, have remained surprising grounded throughout, hosted 12 for Thanksgiving at the tail of the mania, and still have hope.
But, I'm thinking it must be kind of boring to read about my internal struggles and agita. And, to be honest, I'm getting pretty tired of writing it. This reminds me a bit of being in therapy and wanting to leave. Not that it hadn't been extraordinarily helpful, but, at a certain point, I didn't want to talk anymore. My stuff is my stuff. I know it so well. I don't blame anyone else for it. I recognize my patterns and pitfalls. And, after awhile, it doesn't have to be the center of attention anymore. Not saying that it never will again, it just needs to take the back seat for a bit.
So, where does that leave this? I'm thinking it's time to write about more than me. I just put this project into the world that takes on so many issues. All conversation starters. FLOW is a beautiful book that will get lost in the shuffle if someone's not out there being its stage mother. And maybe it's time i jump off the diving board instead of paddling around in the very comfortable shallow end. I can make films, design websites, twitter endlessly, but at this point I'm preaching to the choir (and an exceedingly supportive and nurturing choir it is).
I was never much for jumping right in. But it's time.