Writers write about anything; sometimes we write about writing. Something from deep within was nagging at me today about the 50,000 word writing challenge I am undertaking this month. The following is an excerpt from my personal journal entry this morning:
What is that deeper layer calling to me in my writing about community service? Is it simply the urgency to suggest that we get out of ourselves, our petty reliance on old behaviors that do not serve the world? What threads can I write about that remind us that life is too precious to be wasted with clinging to something that is not in service to a broader community? (If it doesn’t serve me and mine, it probably won’t serve the needs of the world.) Maybe the depth I seek in my writing is about how the soul-journey depends upon our ability to take action on behalf of something larger than ourselves and our personal interests. (I do not consider “interests” the same as “passions”; the latter is larger than us.) How can I get to the deepest place in this conversation with readers about service?
In what ways can I open myself up to that rich soil, beneath the surface of what we can readily see, so that I can examine the creepy crawlies and incredibly-teeming richness of nutrients – the Wild Within? In what manner can I begin to connect readers with the wild place within themselves? How can I offer writing that both challenges and nurtures? How can I push the edge but not too much? How might I offer the opportunity to stretch beyond what we think we know, but to make this journey one in which readers do not become overwhelmed (perhaps altogether quitting the idea of service, of themselves, of the world - because their strength wavers)? How can I guide them to the tipping point, the precarious edge of the cliff, even while helping to build up their courage (which is action despite fear)?
For this writing is a journey for all of us; it is not my intention that my document become a self-serving, self-gratifying act of spouting ideas. No. This writing is an excursion of the heart, an adventure. It is meant to drive away - like the strong winds outside my window are scattering old, dry leaves - that which no longer serves us, that which needs to decay, returning nutrients to the soil.
What is it within us that now must grow? How can I, as the writer, continue to tend the soil of my own growing place, so that what sprouts is beautiful, and of nourishment, to those who read it?
After writing all that in my journal, I felt freer. I sat down at my computer and typed until I met my daily word quota.
For those of you who are following the challenge and holding me accountable, here is my
JGWM word count to date: 23,426.
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