We spent the days not writing very much, sprawled on the floor, all fifty something of us packed in one room. Afterwards, in the evenings, we were encouraged to attend film festivals and music performances but I mostly stayed behind and wrote. It felt awkward to do so at a writing workshop. I want to put a question mark at the end of that sentence. Another writer stated "I am so impressed that you're writing", when she stopped by our bunk. What? I came home proud of what I created in between and will share a few pieces in the next couple of weeks. Most were quick observations, some very bitchy in part because I had spent my personal leave to attend, a bit raw and uncensored, but all to distract and ignite some creative spark.
Why I Write
There was a time, not so long ago, when I knew I had to rely on myself. The belief was based on disappointing relationships and too much given to others. The people in my life were not neglectful and none of this applies to K of course, but you cannot rely solely on a spouse. I do believe, however, you can on yourself. Never have I been abandoned, tormented, forgotten or left behind. But deep within I believed the greatest relationship I would ever have would be with me.
Experiences and great loves have unlocked aspects of myself and aided in my own self-relationship. Writing became a way of checking in. It was not always good or consistent but it did do the trick every time. This weekend, I found the trick worked. Artists around me dredged on in self-angst. Some still tormented by past demons, others just complaining for sake of script.
If nothing else, I come away knowing I was right. And you can be a know it all about things pertaining to your relationship with yourself. It is a one way street. So, I lay here and write to me, among so many who are too angry or shallot to see. They are waiting for a love they are not ready to receive or a trauma they could prepare to heal. And I instead will keep trying to be more, for the sole purpose of bettering myself.
It struck me how I am not writing about what has happened to me, more so I am writing what I am doing for myself. The other writers share their "story", their pain, except I don't really have any. We share very little back story and I wonder if it is on purpose. To not muddy the words we share of even the playing field. So much of my writing, all perhaps, revolves and relies on who I am. My roles. Wife, nurse, friend, bad friend, etc. That's what I write about. Washingtonian. That's what I am. Tonight, I am writing. For the first time in a long time, I am taking the time to write.
I walked down to the beach today and sat on the driftwood, like I've done hundreds of times before with the same drops of water. I sat and stared and tuned out everything else. It felt peaceful and I was happy. A presenter, an actual writer herself, came down with her friend, kicked a few rocks off the shore, lit a cigarette, and shrugged at the view then headed back towards the cabins. On their way out, she asked if I was alright. Of course I was, I've got me.
I feel very different from them all and it seems like a good thing. I came here looking for something and am surprised by my progress at home. So much is already figured out, the hard work was done a long time ago. That's what I'll take with me. It took going to Orcas to really understand what Iv'e created in myself.
