Empty days

Writers get confused. We think writing gives us an excuse for being alive. We forget that being alive is unconditional and that life and writing are two separate entities. Often we use writing as a way to receive notice, attention, love. "See what I wrote. I must be a good person." We are good people before we ever write a word.

~Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

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In less than an hour I have to leave to catch the train. My parents were planning to come and pick me up, but snow and inclement weather caused them to cancel the trip. We had planned to visit the grave site of my father's parents in Simcoe. It will have to wait until next year. I still have to travel to Windsor in order to pick up their second car so I'll have something to drive around in this Christmas.

It's just as well I'll be taking the train. The trip from Guelph to Windsor is monotonous, with a quick transfer in London. Farm after endless farm slips by, and the ramshackle side of cities you don't see when travelling by car, the butt ends of Kitchener, London, Chatham and Windsor. The little Southern Ontario towns with one spotlight and a lonely platform in the night. But I won't be travelling by dark today, only the anemic gray wash that passes for daylight this time of year.

The train will be comfortable. I hope I get a seat to myself. I'm imagining drifting through this countryside that gave rise to me and my ancestors, hoping it will rub something onto my brain.

I feel lost in my writing, in these posts. I have tackled this new format and carried it on with a vengance, as if I had something to prove. I've hit a wall, feeling like I have nothing left to say. I know very well: when that happens, you keep going. Often that's the time when the real meanings start rising to the surface.

I'm also conscious of the part of me that does this for attention. No way can I write here the way I do in my handwritten morning pages. Not even as freely as I would in free_write. If I say something "wrong," someone will catch me on it, as they should. It's nearly impossible to force myself to write from the deep gut as I would like to do. Sure, I can still force my fingers to keep writing, but part of my brain is still working at filtering everything, questioning things I would rather leave unquestioned. The stuff that comes out here is not as raw as could be.

All of life is like that, I suppose. If we said every thought that came to mind, all the time, we would all hate each other. If I didn't learn how to filter my writing, I would never complete anything publishable. Posting this way is an opportunity for me to experiment with writing for an audience. It's a different form, a different flavour from the uncensored blather I pour over the pages of my notebooks. It demands more vigilance.

It's just frustrating when I reach the bottom of the well and find it dry, no words to nourish my fingers. Then I feel naked, as if people will see me for the mindless moron I really am. No, I don't really believe that, but part of me always does and always will.

I know tomorrow will come with fresh thoughts. Maybe on the train, riding past the homeland of my ancestors, another ghost will board and ride my shoulders with a new story. I suppose writing doesn't give me an excuse to live, but it has certainly given my life focus and meaning. I suppose these empty days are like the times when a religious person questions his faith. In the end I carry on not because I can ever be certain of anything I believe in, but because it serves me well enough for now.