Hey,
The clouds over my head are dark and whimsical, the kind that invite you to stare into the sky above and grant permission to let your mind wander. As I often do, my thoughts turn toward life and purpose and what I want things to be like. I’m thinking about work. Not work in the American sense. That’s the thing where I trade my time for money. I mean the real stuff; what we do that we hope to be remembered for.
I’m thinking about writing. About how it helps me make sense of life, even when I can’t quite understand what my question is. That’s the place I find myself now. I don’t know exactly what I’m trying to sort.
Starting a new book after being so immersed in the other is a strange feeling. It’s going back to square one. It’s writing a first draft instead of refining an eighth. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn’t going to be what I want yet. That’s later. But it’s odd to be back to the beginning.
Steven Pressfield talks about resistance in his book “The War Of Art”. It’s the thing that tries to keep us from our real work. And it’s amazing how it hits so quickly. I literally held my completed book in hand and felt that I couldn’t do it again. I had physical proof of what I did and still felt that nagging sense of doubt.
So I’m back to the start of a new book. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I never did. It’ll reveal itself one word at a time.
Hiram