Tag Archives: Writing

Getting Past the Reality of Writing

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The reality of writing is that sometimes we put ourselves into our stories.

I recently sat down with a past story, read through it and saw more things about who I was, what I was and where my mind set was at the time I wrote it.

Whether you’re putting bits and pieces, or entire sections of your life in your story, you may not realize it until after you’ve finished it.

When I read I try not to know too much about the author, but this is sometimes problematic with my favorite authors. I know what they were going through in their lives at the time and I see that in the story when I’m reading and it can get in the way of the reading.

I haven’t finished a novel in a while. I’ve written shorts, blog articles and poetry, but I haven’t finished a story in over a year.

I believe my mind needed a break, and that now that I understand where my writing was going before, I understand how to get it better now and how to put this new journey into the writing.

The one thing I’ve realized is that I have less fear about what I write. I no longer worry about people reading what I write and wondering, “He’s crazy”, that doesn’t cross my mind as often.

When I write, I try to find something in what I’ve learned about things that make it easier to get through the day and discover new things in the writing.

Without trying to make our writing better, what’s the point?

I’ve found that having no fear, has led to discovering new characters, story ideas and ways I could have solved issues with past stories.

Getting Past Who I Thought I Was

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I’m discovering I wasn’t who I thought I was.

When we reach a certain point in our lives, we find that the person we believe ourselves to be, isn’t the one everyone else sees. This is either by accident or design.

I’ve always thought of myself as shy, reserved, but in my family life that’s not how I was.

During my time with TM, I’ve discovered I’m not the person I thought I was, I was much worse.

I believed myself to be a good husband, father and son, though quite a few times it has been the opposite.

I’d been demanding, belittling and sometimes cruel. I write this because I’m doing my best to be better in all the roles I listed above.

A few weeks after I started doing TM I had a self-realization moment.

I watched myself, how I acted towards my wife, kids and parents, and I didn’t like what I saw.

I’ve put up this facade of who I was, what my family life was like and it’s time to tear it down.

I no longer want to be the person who tells stories about his life, I want to write stories about others lives.

Growing up lies were told to me many times about many things, and I’ve found myself doing that to people I care about, not because it was planned, but because it was something I took as normal and in truth, if you love someone you don’t lie to them.

The lies I was told as a kid grew to shape who I am, and what I believed, but in shaping me they’ve allowed me to create this facade and build a wall around myself which I thought protected me from being hurt by others, which was a constant as a child.

My self-realization moment happened and I sat down with my wife, apologized for the man I’d been and promised that I would be a better man, it was a true awakening moment.

When I realized the things I was doing, I was overcome with emotion and had to think about all the things I’d done to people. It was as close as I can get to make amends for the things I’ve done in my life and the way I’ve hurt people.

That I’ve caused pain to my wife, who’s stood by me through everything and put up with my attitude and being an ass, shows how much she cares for me.

I realized that my wife is the best thing to happen to me. She’s never judged me, or anything I’ve done. She’s loved me for who I am and ignored or tolerated the person I was.

I find myself in a new place, devoid of having people who only want me around for their own means and I’m learning that I have more control of things and who I’ll be in the future than I thought possible.

I say these words often to myself, but they ring true every time. Our life is our own, how we deal with it defines who we are to ourselves and others. Who we choose to be is under our control and no one can tell us who we are but ourselves.

 

How my Wife Saved Me.

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Our life, our writing and who we are come together often. Sometimes we discover those who help us need help more than we do.

Each day I wake up, meditate, kiss my kids before they go to school and I always tell my wife I love her

The last part has many reasons, the biggest being how much she’s saved me in the 16 years we’ve been together.

When we first met, I thought she was something she wasn’t and she thought I was a kid who had a few issues.

The more we got to know each other, and when we started dating, I discovered she was as broken as I was and that together we became one whole person.

Tomorrow we celebrate our 15 year wedding anniversary and she’s done more to help me find myself than anyone who’s ever been in my life.

She’s never questioned my motives, never told me I shouldn’t follow my heart and gave me the wonderful kids we have.

She’s my editor when I need help, my confidant when I need counseling, and she always believes I can write better than what I wrote before.

I see more of myself in her every day and I since starting TM I’ve begun to understand why we’re still together and why we need each other.

She’s the best part of who I am and I’d never have the courage to write anything without her love and trust.

I see now that I’m better than I was, but I’ll always be better with her in my life than I could have been had we not met and helped each other when we needed it most.

I find comfort in her by my side and I know I’ve found the person who makes me better.

When I Wanted the Story to End.

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Looking at life from a writer’s perspective, there’s a beginning, middle and end, right?

What if like some novels, we choose to end the story in the middle or not quite the end?

When we reach the point of ending the story prematurely, we discover who are friends are, who the people are that really care about us and whether our lives mean anything to someone else.

There are two times I’ve wanted to end my story, but I kept the writer guessing, wondering which way I would go.

When we keep the writer guessing, we keep life interesting, and if life is interesting, we want to discover how the story ends.

The first time I wanted to end the story, I was 13, I was bullied often and generally treated horribly.

I sat up late one night, holding a hobby knife as if it were a crucifix. I remember that night better than most. The way my sheets felt, the way I cried, and the way the story kept going.

I let the writer keep doing his thing because I wanted to see how the story would end, or at least how I would get out of the situation I was in. Things got better, I moved in with my mom and step-dad and I started a new school. I made friends, none of which I can remember, but I got through it. I let the story go on.

When I talk about these things some people believe I shouldn’t talk about how I wanted to die, not because I was selfish, but because I thought it was the best thing for my family. I believed they would be better if I weren’t there.

The second time, was more recent.

In February, I sat in my car after work, cried for 20 minutes and called my wife and told her, “I think I need to do something different.”

My work day had been horrible. I got in an argument with a co-worker. My work had been poor and didn’t really care if I made it home.

The whole drive home I hoped I would get in a wreck, I would die and my family would be better off. I believed that because my mind told me that’s what would happen.

That night, I sat at my computer, wrote a little bit and felt a little better.

I didn’t get in a wreck, or try to cause one, but I wanted to. The reason I didn’t was I wanted to see how my story ends, and I know it isn’t close to the final chapter.

I still have grandchildren I want to see. A daughter I want to see get married and a son I want to see turn into a man.

There are many parts of my story which are waiting in future chapters, the most important are still to come and I know that life isn’t done until the those two words come across the screen…The End!

Writing, Depression and Staying Away from the Cliff.

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What do you do when the cold runs in. When the snow comes to your shins, or higher, and you think…how did this happen?

I see there are things we have in common. I once felt that the snow, ice, or whatever weather you prefer was rolling in all the time. I felt my life had been switched with a meteorologist on some backwoods station, but alas, it hadn’t.

I’d experienced the cold. Had things happen in my life that I didn’t or couldn’t do anything about, but I’ve also done things where I didn’t accept responsibility for my actions.

There are many reasons for this, the biggest being I wasn’t mature enough to understand my life was in my hands and I should stop making excuses for what I’m doing and stop blaming others for my screw ups.

Well, the cold came, it came in a torrent one year ago. I felt it run down my spine, into my soul and wrap every molecule with its frosty embrace. The truth a year ago was I was afraid to be who I wanted, I knew that who I was wasn’t what everyone wanted.

I wanted to be this free spirit. I wanted to care about the people around me who cared about me and to hell with the rest.

In the last year I’ve been down the drain of depression, felt the exhilaration as I reached the top of the cliff and stared at the little ants, and they had no idea I was standing on the cliff. They didn’t understand the cliff was closer than they thought, and possibly myself as well.

When I was able to step away from the edge, find myself and let everyone know what I’d been through, I felt ashamed that I’d stood on the cliff. I didn’t want anyone to know how close I came, hell most people believed I was the sanest person they knew.

The cliff is still out there, waiting for its chance to surprise me. Indeed it surprises me that I’ve even told my story of depression and coming out of it.

I’ve wanted to be this other person for so long, the one I am now, that trying to be the person I want is harder than I thought it would be.

I want to write as much as possible, but I’m like a dog in forest filled with squirrels.

When I tell myself, “You have to write” something happens, whether it’s a distraction or something else. I find that my time away from the keyboard is one that I don’t often like, but I do it, for the weirdest of reasons. I’m afraid to show some of what I write for fear that it would either make people afraid, or my wife would have me committed.

I see that I’m becoming who I want to be, without the distraction of caring what people think about me or my writing, and I’m finding that living in my world is getting better as long as I don’t climb the mountain and get near the cliff again.