the writer's life

many people in walks of life which do not involve creation are completely unaware of the necessity for discipline.  it is not only that few serious artists who live lives of debauchery produce a large body of work, but that few serious artists are able to live lives which are without interruption.  we do not shed all obligations when the children leave home.  i am working on this section of the manuscript while teaching an intensive four and a half hour credit course, and neither may be skimped.  many writers work in the evenings after a nine-to-five job.  and there are letters to be answered, the phone which constantly calls us.  i travel a lot in order to give lectures, teach at writers' conference.  to write consistently, i must seize opportunities.  i write in airports.  i write on planes.  i find airports and planes and hotel rooms excellent places in which to write, because while i am in them i am not responsible for anything except my work.  once i have my seat assignment i can write until the flight is called; when i am on the plane, the pilot is responsible for the flight; i am not; and so i can work on my manuscript.  in a hotel room i do not have to think about the vacuum cleaner; domestic chores are not my responsibility; i am free to write. 

- madeleine l'engle

i needed to devour something like this tonight because i'm in the middle of load of work that just never seems to stop.  as much as i hope to think that this process will be a peaceful one, i suppose it will never truly be creativity without it's tensions or the so called birth pangs.  so like l'engle i must commit to write something about writing this memoir every single day to keep my mind open for the voice of soleil.  

it's frustrating when it gets shut and i'm hoping that she will surface even in the middle of all these things. say something, i kept telling her today.  but she remains watchful for a time when i can pay attention to only her.  i think i need to tell her that if she waits for that time, i might never get around to it.  

pausing.  listening.  looking at the corner of my eye and watching the lamp blur the light infront of me.  feeling the impatience and the anxiety.  waiting.  while waiting more concerns pop up.  a project that i committed my mom to finish on thursday.  a meeting to be set on saturday morning to arrange for freelance design opportunities.  another meeting in the afternoon.  ton's of books by my side hungering to be read.  

fill my mind, it cries.  and then she comes out.  finally.  looking at me and staring at this messy plate of unkempt thought.  

so what should i write about tonight?