Skip to main content

Day 1 in the Wild-erness!

                                          Photo found here

Okay, so pure honesty here. I did get up to write at 6:30, but I stalled those 15 minutes of writing until 8:00, surfing social networks, email, etc.

I was also a little miffed that I was awoken from a very interesting dream where I was interviewing for a job with a mentor and role model, who is my version of who I want to be when I grow up, and she was doing everything in her power to give me a very favorable offer! And I got woken up before I could hear her terms!

Still, I knew I would be getting to writing,  and the coolness of the morning was very soothing and magical, and I am glad I got to watch and feel the sun grow brighter and warmer through the window.

I also made for a soft entry: kept my laptop by my bed, so, warm under covers I could place it on my lap.

The discomfort of beginning kept me 'cleaning house' so to speak, answering emails, forwarding interesting content to friends. Yet, the commitment finally led me to open up my writing program.

Day 1: what tugged at me was to write from a prompt of opening doors to my creativity and walking through to see what was on the other side, and writing about what was shown to me.

Immediately scenes from old writing came forward, and I saw how things could mix and match. My intention for this afternoon is to fish some of those writings out, and try them on together.

I am noticing and wishfully thinking, perhaps? that at this point much of foundational writing and conceptualizing has been done, and that it is a matter of stringing together a story that, as Bob Dylan so aptly put it about his music, "that I can dig.".

However, this is making it clear to me, that the morning 15 needs to bring about writing new content, and no fishing, editing or constructing, otherwise that will take over. And in the past, this is what always brings me to my knees, my making it all too complicated.

Allowing myself to really fall in love with my creations without the editor mind jumping in to rain on the parade feels paramount to keeping the ball rolling.

We are so fickle when it comes to giving out our love and affection, expecting so much in return so quickly before withdrawing our leap to love. I am doing my best to step out of this conditional love in all of my relationships, and my hope is to treat this project like one of my children. They can make me mad as hell, but I will never give up on them, stop loving them, nurturing them. I will love them fiercely, but less and less I will judge what fierce love looks like--because sometimes it is a swift kick in the pants that is truly the most loving and which frees us up to focus on what truly matters in this life, and to quit beating the drum of our victim archetype that is always ready to rise up and give up.

Btw , there is a great comic on The Oatmeal about running that I want to keep reading over and over that is directly applicable to my writing, and every other aspect of my life, for that matter! Make sure to read all 6 parts.(Thanks, E, for posting it on FB--see FB is good for a lot! Maybe even worth stalling for:)

Day 1 down, and 39 to go. XO!


  1. Good morning Brookster;) So, I see you are making progress. I'm thrilled for you beautiful lady. I'm still stalling. As a matter of fact I just visited Oatmeal Man and fell in love with him. LOL! Now I'm here with you, stalling like you: "The discomfort of beginning kept me 'cleaning house' so to speak, answering emails, forwarding interesting content to friends. Yet, the commitment finally led me to open up my writing program."

    I'm going to open my writing program, hold on a sec. Done.

    My new novel, which I haven't touched in 6 months is now open. I'm torn between writing this or starting something new for now and then going back to this later. But I think that's just another stalling tactic.

    I started reading a book last night called Inspired and Unstoppable by Tama Kieves and it kept me up half the night. It excited me so much to read her words because they sounded like the words I'd been thinking for years. I love this book and I'm thinking Spirit has sent it to me to help me move forward. Yay!!! I bet you've already read this book;)

    Anyway, I'm cheering for you as you push through the blechy sloth of stagnation and sludge. We are the champions Brooke. Always were always will be.

    I have to get off here if I'm going to get my 15 minutes in;)


    1. Congratulations for getting your program open, Leah! I know how hard that is, and I have been having the debate about leaving and old novel to begin a new one for four years now. In my case, it has become best to leave the old and work on the new. The 15 is working for me. I can do 15 of anything. I like that I am not pretending otherwise! Thanks for following along. And I had the same feeling when I read Tama's book! It was like reading a giant love letter to my soul, from someone who totally got me! Thank God for writers! Champions. Yes. I'll open to that. Why not? We are climbing our own personal Everest. Love you!

    2. All this talk about roller coasters (yesterday's blog) and Everest.... Brooke, have you read my latest blog post? LOL! If not, you need to. *grin

    3. Just did! Thank you! And I encourage everyone else read it too!!!!


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…