This was something I wrote a few years ago on another blog of mine. (http://vickybastedo.blogspot.com/) I was going to reblog a nifty poem I read on another person’s blog, but I got caught up wondering if I had permission. So here’s this, anyway! It still describes my current hang-ups!
‘Writing is so special. Even when I can’t think of a new story, I’m still taking note of life. My mind is split in two, the part that’s experiencing, and emoting about that experience, and the part at the back. That part that exists no matter how scattered I am, or how spread thin.
Inside is the treasure chest; behind the ornate door is a world all my own. I just have to step through into that windswept landscape and call out. Sometime I know I’ll live there again.
Perhaps I can’t write now. Maybe real life is affecting me too deeply. I’m worried, or agitated, or in a permanent state of waiting. I’m trusting God that somehow my children will be all right, that all the pieces I drop are noticed by Him.
Yet that inner world is there to help me, to show me that in the life of my characters there’s answers. The way for them is untangled.
God allows me this hideaway. He gave me the gift. He understands the inner workings. And forgives me that I go there alone. And one day soon I’ll insert that rusty key. The ornate iron gates will open for me with a creak of possibility. I’ll step through into the windscape, and smell a journey coming on.
There’s two parts of me, and inside either I’m powerful and safe.’