Let me count the ways that I am distracted each day from writing, from working on my work in progress “Big Horn Catchmequick.” I struggle countless times each day to find time to create, to write. My days, they are filled with the typical duties of being a ranchers wife, of being a mother. Then when I believe I have a handle on what I should do, I must throw the duties of being a daughter, an aunt, a neighbor and a friend into the mix. These are all titles that I wear and each duty and obligation is the most important, because what we do defines us.
Relationships take time, and quality time does matter most: homes take time, meals take time and of course gardens and lawns demand attention. Gratefully, though, the later demands are seasonal.
Do you feel as though you, too, are burning your candle at both ends? And all of this leaving nothing in the middle to feed you strongest passion, your calling?
Well, if you are human, then it is easy to feel your passions neglected. I have been pouting about having little time to write for months, Maybe, for years. Sneaking away to write a quiet prose in the middle of the night, often while my family sleeps and usually while hiding somewhere where no one would suspect my activities. Yes, indeedy, I was a closet writer. Well a bathroom writer, anyway. (With the door locked and the whirling fan, nobody tempted to bother, Not even the widgets.)
Life is like this for the most of us; we become so engrossed in the mundane, the activities of living from day-to-day, we lose sight, we lose focus of our passions.
I have overcome one and a half decades of detours, to finally arrive to this point of writing. And writing, now, because my life, my soul depends on it.
I wrote as I am writing now, only toward the end of High School and probably then because told to do so. And perhaps some in college while taking, of all things, an elective class in Epic Poetry.
Yes, I was the type to invest my elective college credits in Homer. This should have been a, more than subtle, hint of my true calling.
My life has been distracting, as it is for everyone. We can never look back and be disgruntled by where we have come, because without the past leading to the now, would we have the necessary experiences to progress?
Perhaps, I am of the tragic of sorts, or if luck would have it, this is exactly where I am meant to be at this place in my life. Having been inspired twenty years ago, to now be delivered here, capable to proceed.
I spend free time reading of Thomas Mann’s life and works of Ricarda Huch, which leads me to find my lack of focus and my lack of time truly insignificant. We live in an affordable time to write and to live so freely. My God, I have disappointments in not having ample time to write? Though, now, it has taken little more than reading of these histories of what others have overcome, to manifest their calling, to realize that I have nothing to complain of. Nothing should keep me in restraint.
Influences of such artistic summary convoluted by history is how we have shaped our lives. The influence festers in our subconscious until rupturing as art, as prose, as an outcome; a result that isn’t alway pretty.
Given the surplus of resources and motives falling into sink, we must feel propelled by nothing less than destiny to succeed.