Writing Myself Alive





For the next 30 days I’ll be participating in a writing workshop designed to help bring your creativity back to life. I need this. I need it more than air.

Every time I sit down to write I think of something else I should do first. The tyranny of the urgent has been a convenient excuse for a life gone by.

I could say that procrastination made me want to join this challenge. Or writer’s block. These things are both true, but I think the bigger truth is that maybe my voice is changing. Maybe like some late-blooming, middle-aged puberty I just need to let it change and crack and become what it’s going to become, because the old way of spewing words isn’t working anymore.

Recent losses in my life have been so debilitating I’ve had no idea how to function through my grief. Loss of a marriage, loss of an identity. Nothing in my life has been what I thought it was. No one has been who I thought they were. I’ve had to question my choices, my ability to see people for who they truly are, and most of all my ability to weigh my own worthiness on the scales of continual disappointment and disillusionment. It’s one thing to tell yourself you’re worthy. It’s another to have to scream it over the cacouphany of a life that keeps whispering the opposite.

Writing used to be my way out–my way through, but I have, it seems, been rendered mute. The enormity of the last several years’ events have effectively washed out every alternative route. Even when I do put words on paper it feels flat. Lifeless. Hollow.

Inevitably, it seems, we are altered by the road rash of life. Some of it is visible, some a little more hidden. I’ve gotten to the point now where I don’t think I can hide the brokenness any longer. There are too many cracks. Too much of me has been altered.

I am no stranger to change. In fact, I have moved 20 times in my life, most of those as an adult, five of them cross-country, once to Europe and back again. And yet, I am stuck. Wrecked temporarily by a life turned upside down by more change than even I could handle.

I moved to a new city, and had to let go of everything, but my heart has been drifting. An aimless, painful, can’t-keep-flying-so-I-guess-I’m-just-falling kind of drifting. Deeper and deeper into this shell of a person I thought I knew, who built a life with a series of shadow people.

Perhaps this forced and excruciating rebirth is an exquisite gift. Perhaps my freedom is the truest gift ever. And maybe, just maybe, this falling and drifting is causing the discovery of things I might never have known whilst being eclipsed by a love that had the pull of the moon on my heart. I have a blank canvas on which to paint a new life and no idea what colors to use. No words for the picture. Write myself alive? God I hope so.

I am committing to posting about my journey – one post every day, throughout the challenge. It might be about my journey, or it might be a poem or part of a story or the words I’ve accomplished that day. It might be my fears, my joys, my excitement or my frustration. It may be one line, one word or one picture. But I will do it. I have to do this. I have to find my voice again.

About the author

Lynda Meyers

Lynda Meyers is the award-winning author of Letters From The Ledge and Finn Again

By Lynda Meyers

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