a few weeks ago, the amazing, engaging funny one called bindu wiles threw out an idea: c’mon everybody, she said, for the next 21 days, let’s do yoga and write 800 words at least 5 days of every week.
it was a mantra from the mantra fairy.
for about 2 years (times, oh i don’t know – 5 maybe), i’ve been fantasizing about doing that very thing. and the fantasies had whipped themselves into a veritable frenzy a mere 2 days before bindu revealed her idea. (that’s when i was SURE she loves me.)
i was all over it, sending out tweets encouraging others to jump on board. if you look at her site, you’ll see my name beside #6. it says something about how wholly jeanne is leaping, grand-jeteing, or maybe just jumping off the porch. i bought marianne’s yoga 4 writers and made sure it was on on my computer and my spanking new ipad. i researched writing apps for the ipad. i was ready. eager. frothing at the fingertips. i could hardly wait the 5 days or so till day one.
but here’s the embarrassing truth of it all: i watched the yoga video once. one single time. it’s wonderful – that has nothing at all to do with it. i just haven’t done it. i go to bed everything and see myself doing yoga on the deck as the sun rises. i took the ipad with me to the falls a couple of weeks ago, imagining how fantastic i was going to feel after doing yoga beside the falls.
and writing? oh my goodness, i’ve written way more than 800 words every day . . . if you count checks and emails and thank you notes and grocery lists. some days i’ve written 800 words . . . but only in my head. listen, i have a masters in transformational language arts, i lead writing workshops – i know better. i absolutely know better.
and when i think about where i would be if i had done these 2 smallish things every day for the past 21 days. shoot, when i think of how i’d feel and the size clothes i’d be wearing and how many books and plays i’d’ve finished by now if only i’d sat myself down 5 days a week for the past umpteen years that i’ve been thinking about doing it. some days a memory lights, and i ache to sit down and reread an old journal to refresh the details and see how i felt about it all . . . but there are no such journals because i’ve been doing everything else.
i have ideas, people. ideas. for plays (4), books (2), films (1 – book first, then film.) ( yes, i’m unabashedly milking it.) and i can see myself smiling uncontrollably at the thrill of having the spigot on full blast because we all know that creativity begets creativity. i’ve been carrying around the seeds for decades – and the good news is that they still intrigue me, but the bad news is: they’re still just seeds.
i tell a few people about my plans, about the book i’m working on, but i don’t tell them how i’m just piddling around. “how can i help you?” friends ask . . . friends who would do anything – anything, i tell you, to help me get these things written. but we all know that, as we say around here, can’t nobody do this but me.
then why don’t i do it? why don’t i avail myself of the marvelous yoga video and sit myself down at one of the numerous inviting (and never used) spots i’ve created here at home that beckon-to-the-point-of-begging me to stop and drop?
damned if i know.
and damned if i want to waste any more time trying to figure it out.