untitled...

I just wrote a post and deleted it. It wasn't because I didn't want you, dear reader, to read what I had to say. But I felt it was truer to myself to commit those thoughts and feelings to my heart.. to take them inside where they can solidify...instead of committing them to paper (or whatever you call this) to be injested visually by others...

Im not a professional writer anymore... or much, these days. I have been pondering tonight what it was that made me so happy about writing for the OC Register. Outside of the challenge to come up with a catchy, well-written lead, I know what fueled me... I helped people. I was able to wield my pen to inform, to inspire, but also to support... and that's what I loved the most. I loved writing about companies (especially female-owned) who offered lovely goods or services and using my power of the press to support their endeavours. Of course their story alone had merit, but it was my way of helping people who had a dream get their chance in the spotlight. Even if it was one small story in the paper for a single day, recycled the next. It truly was my spark.

When my focus had to turn to helping myself more, I lost my spark. When creativity was churned out for dollars more than satisfaction, I lost my spark. I know that's the way of the real world, but it extinguished something inside of me...

Now Im happy to just work for money because I still find a level of satisfaction in simply doing a good job and making a wage that supports me and my boys. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. I will find my spark again one day. I will care about helping people through my words again one day. To inspire. To encourage. To support.

One day. Again.

A "writer" on writing...

I'm pondering if there comes a point in your life where you hit a crossroads and realize that it's simply time for a change... I am perhaps there.

I'm not sure if it's the result of my bouts of emotional and physical exhaustion over a span of months, or perhaps it's the milky froth of reality that settles on top after a stirring...

So much of my identity is wrapped in the fact that I'm a writer. To not do this becomes a question for me not of monetary value, but of my value as a person. It is, after all, what I had wanted to be since I was a child. [That, and an actress. An English teacher. A singer, like Amy Grant. And a mom.]

I have lost my spark. I'm not sure how to regain it. The effort required is simply nowhere to be found in this body, or in this heart. Not anymore. I'm tired.

Far gone are the days of SqueezeOC, where although I had my share of setbacks and weaknesses, I produced well-written, creative stories and brought some good ideas to the table. Despite my lack of "face time" and limited capacities being the Mom on staff who did that full-time job with little to no child care support.

Walked away from my fashion writing gig. Not so great at fiction writing; proven that. Wrapping up and then ceasing to take on anymore freelance writing clients. Fate at the Register is pending.

I know that, ultimately, my identity is not in what I do, but who I am...
So here's to embracing that...

Patience

I have waited a long time for deep, heartfelt desires to come to me. Put the hope out into the universe through heart and mind and whispered prayers for years, many years... to now finally have these hopes, real and true, in my life. They have finally come, filling the spaces in my heart to overflowing. So thankful....beyond words...

Hope

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
-Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.