I drew a schedule and wrote it out. Right there on my sticky pad on the table pretty much in my face so I couldn’t ignore it. Not like I would have wanted to ignore it. I wouldn’t have. But I might have been able to talk myself into believeing that it didn’t count, or it wouldn’t make a difference, or that I should just shush and not let my hands make love to the keyboards, thrusting with the thoughts filling my mind.
I usually don’t write out schedules. No, I plot and plan in my head. Where nothing else can witness and accuse me of not doing ‘it’, if at the last moment I choose to chicken out. I wake, work out, do chores, get clean, get to the office, do the things that need doing, get home from work, and then, just then, when it’s time, something ‘more plausible’ occurs to me. So I mutter “tomorrow”; feeling relieved, ashamed, sad, and angry.
I feel all these emotions because it wasn’t always like this. No, it wasn’t. Once upon a time…
There was a little beautiful princess, with curly dark hair, a fair skin and laughing eyes. She was not a princess in that her father was king of a kingdom. Oh, she was. Except that the ‘kingdom’ was their little family, not a citizenry of worshipping subjects. She would grow believing that she could have everything she liked, and be anything she wanted. She was stubborn you see, and she was the apple of her father’s eyes. Everyone soon learnt to give her everything she wanted. She was a force like that.
One day she went far from her father’s kingdom. She had wanted an adventure, and had looked up at her father with pleading eyes and trembling lips. He hadn’t been able to refuse her. He had however sent people to keep her safe. He couldn’t compromise that.
She wrote a story of a girl who wanted a boy and told him. It made sense to her. She had been taught that to ask for whatever she wanted and she would have it. She left the book by her bed, planning to finish the story later that night. When night fell she stretched her arms lazily for the book. It wasn’t there. She searched everywhere; she really wanted to finish the story. Dawn met her awake and searching, a furrow between her brows and a pout on her lips. She would not find the book until it came to her that afternoon, flung at her by the leader of a group of girls. They danced around her: mocking, taunting, and chanting a song demeaning a girl who asked for a boy’s love. They did it everyday for 3 months.
She returned home after the adventure, the book somewhere in the recesses of her bag. She never completed that story. She had returned safe, yes, both not anymore whole.
She tried, but couldn’t suppress the urge to write. Writing, to her, was as water in the words of Fela:
“if water kill your child, na water you go use”.
So she wrote; but she never completed a story, and she never shared her stories, save anonymously….
I wrote a schedule yesterday and today, with “write” in it. I also set a reminder for the rest of the week. Writing is important, it matters. I found a tribe at http://yourturnchallenge.tumblr.com/ who understand. Reading through other’s stories, I see we are never truly alone. Especially not in our battles.