Something's happening

I can feel the creative energy crackling.

Several times in the past week, I've torn myself away from "serious, paying projects" to write in my journal and notebooks. An emotionally charged maelstrom is churning in my head, and I have to siphon my chaotic thoughts onto the page to regain focus. (It's kind of like lancing a boil, but not quite as gross.)

I've gone through periods like this before: once when I was a 19-year-old sophomore in college and again when I was a 28-year-old entering her first mid-life crisis. Both these phases produced copious amounts of writing: hundreds and hundreds of journal pages, several short stories. One even triggered the catalyst for this darn novel in progress.

The point is, I'm finally percolating. And the more I write, the more I want to write. (I know--momentum works that way.)

One of the most exciting aspects of these creative wellsprings is the fact that I have absolutely no clue what will happen or where it will take me. I only know that, so far, both prior experiences heralded life changes and my most prolific periods of literary (ahem!) output.

In fact, the whole thing reminds me of the boiled-sweet boat ride from Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" as Willy Wonka sings:

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going!
There's no knowing where we're rowing,
Or which way they river's flowing!
Is it raining? Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Bah! Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing,
Are the fires of hell a-blowing?
Is the grizzly reaper mowing?
Yes! The danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing...

Who knows what the outcome will be? Maybe I'll crash and burn. But it beats idling in neutral.

Who cares?

I was walking along Central Park South a few days ago, thinking about my novel, when an unsettling thought struck me.

I no longer seemed to care about my characters.

Wait a minute. Even though all of the events were completely fictionalized, this was my story. Didn't I care about myself?

No, not really.

I had trained myself to dismiss all my non-business-related goals as unimportant. Anything that sucked time out of my business was frivolous. I had a mission: to get my business off the ground, to build up a steady client base, to replenish my savings.

I didn't have time to waste on such self-serving activities as going to the gym or, God forbid, writing a silly novel.

Ouch.

The realization reminded me of a conversation I had had with a friend only a few weeks earlier. Every time I made an appointment with myself and broke it, whether I was supposed to go to the gym or simply write in my journal, I sent the unconscious message that I wasn't important. And I would resent myself for it.

He was right.

I became angry with myself. Why wasn't my story important? Didn't I have just as much right to be heard as the next person?

I had given myself the mental kick in the pants I needed. And rediscovered my passion for my novel in progress.

Okay, okay - I get the hint

You know those periods in your life where a certain topic keeps popping up, over and over?

I'm in one of those right now.

In fact, I've been in one for a while now, and it's evolving.

The onslaught began as I dug into a media kit I was writing for one of my clients, who had written a children's book. The tale chronicled a restless young warrior's quest to follow his heart's desire. He didn't know what it was--he only knew that not seeking it made him restless.

Writing about that story started the wheels in my head spinning.

For a while now, I've feared that my growing business will zap any energy and creativity that I could otherwise apply toward my novel. When am I finally going to focus on my literary ambitions?

Shortly after writing the media kit, I had the pleasure of interviewing PR legend David Finn, author of 98 books, accomplished painter, sculptor, photographer and lecturer, as well as the principal owner of one of the world's largest PR powerhouses.

I asked how he was able to pursue all of his passions and create such a thriving business.

"We find the time to do what's important to us," he said.

He's right. If we're committed to doing something, we find a way to do it. But most of us treat our dreams as just that--dreams--not as goals that we set out to achieve.

During the next week or so, several other conversations cropped up about the power of pursuing your passion. An article I read from The New York Times. A movie I saw at the theater. I couldn't get away from it.

So I started raising the issue with other people: at the communications committee meeting for New York Women in Communications, at my weekly breakfast networking meeting. And I found that the subject really resonated with the audiences.

Then, the shift started.

Instead of people talking about passion in general, the comments became more pointed. The people in my life started asking me about my passion: my novel.

I'd chuckle and roll my eyes, talk about how business was keeping me busy. "One of these days."

And the comments kept coming. Not just casual inquiries, but earnest encouragement. From professional contacts, from readers of this blog, from friends, from my boyfriend, from my mom.

Just two hours ago, my sales trainer jumped on this bandwagon, encouraging me to act now toward realizing those aspirations, lest I look back in 20 years, angry at myself for failing to follow my dream.

He's right. They all are.

And I'm taking those steps now.