Half Strung Bow

Half Strung Bow

There were already strings in my bow when I became an indie author.

I’m not talking about having a bow, half strung. However, one with loose strings, frayed and flying from previous symphonic madness … probably, I was waving that like a flag as I staked my claim on this authoring path.

Regardless, I always have had and always will have a bow that is strung completely and perfectly. It must be so. I tend to get edgy when things don’t line up. Things like the edges of a book that I surreptitiously tap with gentle fingers until it is square with the corner of the table.

Like any accomplished reader of the score of life, I must restring my bow at the appropriate moments, and slather on the rosin at others.

I didn’t come to this career without foreknowledge. I bring with me a wealth of understanding and depth of self-knowing that serves my stories and characters more thoroughly than being able to spell complicated words.

Although, I generally manage to do that without hiccough (because I think it’s cool).

Point is, everyone has a path littered with shredded bits of bow trailing off behind them. There are even chips of wood and some completely shattered frames on mine.

That’s okay, find a likely looking tree beside the path, and get whittling! I only cut my fingers on very special occasions, and rarely on purpose, these days.

My release of limiting beliefs has unleashed an awesome fearlessness. It’s simultaneously bizarre and hilarious. I sit on my own shoulder, observing the wonderful madness of me, going ahead, and doing the work I feel drawn to create. And, I don’t care if nobody except me falls in love with the result.

Such daring. {My latest bit of daring.}

I read that last line and have to laugh with an unrestrained blatt of vocal eruption — it’s just so damn funny. Because, now, the daring doesn’t leave the cloying aftertaste of fear behind.

Self-sabotage

Self-sabotage

This week, I almost gave up.

Right in the middle of a writer’s high (that may or may not have been a little too much like mania to be entirely healthy), a nice big red button that had taken many years to fully develop burst out of an intimate conversation one afternoon and punched me right in the face.

It fucking well hurt!

But, it woke me up. The button was clearly labelled. There was no disguise or deception.

It tried to shimmer sideways and turn on its perception filters to throw me off. But, no. I see you now, you old pattern of sabotage. You will never be able to hide again.

I will write. Even though maybe everything I’m pouring my heart and soul into will come to nothing, which earns less than that. My worth is not determined by how much other people are willing to pay for it.

Not any more.

I will say my opinions right out loud, even though you may not agree with them. Maybe you will! The terrifying part is that I don’t know if you will or not. The part of my opinion I share has always been shaped that way. I have always sculpted it into an attractive form. My powers of seduction are considerable.

I will stick to my path, even though it veers off in a different direction to the one you deem proper. My effort is enough because I say so, not because you can see the point.

… It makes me smile when you do, though.

Big and toothy smiling that shows the discolouration of my capped front tooth. The one that I think ruins my smile, even though I’ve had decades to get used to it. Bet you didn’t smack yourself in the mouth with a cricket bat when you were seven.

Was it way back then that I choked off my voice? Clamped my lips closed to keep away the judgement?

This week, I didn’t give up. I thumped the hell out of that red button until it told the truth. Turns out, I installed it and made it bigger over the years.

Just me.

Limiting beliefs

Limiting beliefs

Mine seem to have vanished.

I discovered some long-forgotten stairs that wound down into the long hallway of my subconscious. The carpet was antique olive and there was burnished wooden panelling as far as the eye could see.

There was a door. The sign read clearly, Limiting Beliefs.

I opened the door and a roomful of fluttering escaped and soared away. I even went inside the room and made sure the windows were flung wide, too.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that I can allow myself to be guided, I don’t always have to be the guide.

If you want to explore your creative self (you have one, even if you don’t think so) click the following link to find some wonderful inspiration for going creative with Orna Ross.

There was space to breathe after my limits were freed.

My spirit wanted to build a pillow fort and play in the realm of Epic. This is what happened … Pull of the Tribe – Series Trailer … Yep, still feeling the awesome power of a deep breath.

Blockages of safety

Blockages of safety

There is something terrifying in what I don’t yet understand about myself. My subconscious needs to protect me, so my body is littered with little pouches of padding wrapped tightly around tiny nuggets of truth.

I feel a packet lodged in the back of my throat, speaking in the face of confrontation almost never happens easily.

There is one wrapped around the right hipbones of my pelvic cradle, it threads in and out of the muscle that could support my core and remain soft and comfortable when I sit in a cross-legged position on my yoga mat. I can’t recall the time that is was, though.

There is definitely one hooked on the tendon behind my right knee — the section that runs through the beginning abundance of my thigh.

Two of the most distressing ones have been melted together, loaded into a psychic shotgun, and blasted into my liver and pancreas. Some of those fragments have been dug loose, but a few remain — they went deep.

Writing is a therapeutic practice for moving through blockages and recognising what each knot of fear holds bound at its centre. Each time I come to a place in the story where my fingers falter and the stream of words squeezes to a trickle, there is where fear is.

This week I chased myself into a whirlpool that drained into the depths of my unnaturally deep navel. There it puddled growing stagnant, smelly and oozing with infected emotions. Finally, I allowed the newest character in my story to grab hold of the padding of that particular truth and rip it open. My aversion to her gaped wide and raw.

It was like a dam bursting!

My fingers started dancing on the keys again, her beautiful personality became fleshed out on the page, and it was so freeing. But, I forget — this is what it is like every single time.

Always, on the other side of fear is freedom.