Book Blog: Some smaltzy cliche
I’m trying to work on my book this morning but I’m feeling somewhat lethargic. That, I can’t be bothered, let others do the work, let me sit on the sofa and wallow, kind of feeling. Let me swim in the morose. Let me float in the waters of my own self-pity. Let me sink into the depths of my own despair.
I want to write from the space of wonder, to come from the space that the whole universe was created from. I want the seed of ingeniosity, the flower of inspiration, the tree of incredulity.
I want to bask in the incredible, swim in the sublime and rise to the heights of my own dazzling prodigiousness.
I sit seemingly, despairingly ebullient. I write seemingly, amazingly lackluster words. I give the impression of outrageous ambivalence.
Inside I am excitable, wondrously impassioned, fervently inspired as I sit quietly, silently, stilly, unmoving like a rock in a hard place. The outside world doesn’t know that I’m a hive of activity, a buzzing, overflowing, honey filled matrix, a honeycomb of thoughts and ideas.
Inspiration be damned. I don’t need no inspiration. Yet it breathes itself through me, it carves itself through my despair, it meanders itself onto the page. It takes its time, it works itself out, and, miracle upon miracles, I write.
I write like I’ve never written before. I write like a poet, a Shakespear, a Jane Austen. I take a leaf from my own book. I write with, through and from my Invisible Coach.
I write until I am exhausted, spent, until there’s nothing left. Until the cloth has been wrung dry, until the sponge has been thoroughly squeezed, until the last breath has been drawn, the last rites administered. The prayers once beseeched, the grant approved, benediction bestowed, the miracle has occurred.
And it passes by in a glimpse. Blink and you’ll miss it, the camera has flashed and the moment passed by. But the legacy remains on the page. Here in the form, in permanent ink, never to be denied, here for the world to see. Evidence, undeniable, beyond, way beyond, reasonable doubt.
The words come. Not my usual style, but perfectly my style as I have no style.
My ego thinks my style is minimalist. Not true. My ego thinks I’m direct and blunt. Not true. My ego thinks I have one identity that is reflected in my style. Not true.
When my true self is at play, every style turns up. Damn right it does. When ego is in play only a stilted version of myself turns up.
I let myself go and let myself come through. One and the same, just a different side of the same coin, two halves of the same game and some other schmaltzy cliché that I can’t think of at the moment.
Note from Maria
I wrote this piece today and although it’s very different in style to my usual blog, I’m publishing it because the style is reflective of some of the chapters in my book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.