Through The Looking Glass: Writing for My Life

I always buy blue. Never red or black or fine-tipped. The one I hold now is a Papermate Silkwriter with a 1.6B tip. I bought it because it sounded sexy and I thought somehow it'd make my writing come alive again. I stare at this new pen of mine and wonder what words will spill through it. My life has been so chaotic that writing--what I love doing the most--has been put in Time Out like a child in trouble, left in a corner crying to be released, wondering what it could have possibly done to warrant my abandonment, the ultimate punishment. Along with the new pen I bought two Cambridge lined spiral notebooks. I am on a mission to resurrect my words. On a rainy Sunday afternoon I slowly coax them out of Time Out and encourage them to play. My pen has been down for so long that my thoughts don't flow smoothly. Instead the words come out like they've been stuck in a clogged bathroom drain. They spit out in short coughs and hiccups. They are sporadic and nonsensical and there is nothing pretty about them. They want to go back to Time Out because it's easier to just sit there. But I push. I write whatever comes to mind. Words like "granite" and "mediocrity" and "hope". I string together thoughts like "How did I get here" and "I am alone but not lonely" and "I miss my best friend." I am rebuilding my writing vernacular. Like any talent or hobby, a writer's ability to entertain or persuade or delight only gets better by putting pen to paper, hoping to find something brilliant to say amid the jibberish. It doesn't take too long for the words to start flowing: They come fast and furious and my mind is on creative fire. I have found my rhythm, and it's akin to the perfect kiss with a new lover; I hope it doesn't end. But just as quick, the rhythm skips a beat and I stare at the page with Writer's block and I think "I wonder if I'm really any good at all." Lately I feel a sense of panic, a gnawing sensation that life is quickly slipping from my grasp and I

haven't published a book yet. Trying diligently to avoid self-deprecation, though, I pat myself on the back and mentally check off my list of accomplishments. College Grad: check. Own my own house: check. Raising an awesome daughter: check. Love my job: check. But still, the aching sense that I haven't done yet what I'm supposed to do with my life: make a difference through my writing. So, what's next? Words. Lots of them. They have sat patiently, but are now restless and ready to be released. A dear friend of mine recently said "You need to make time in your life for what you love to do, Miss Patterson." He was right. And so I begin, literally, my next Chapter.