The other night, after the #DropintheOcean show on the #BuddyUp server over on Discord, the group got talking about 'free writing'. It got me to thinking about when I had begun to write.
At first, my writing was quite shy. I put down a few of my thoughts on paper and locked them away. Often, they felt pretty dark. They were the thoughts of a young girl; unsure of herself. The thought of anyone reading the words that I had penned was alarming. I hid my little book of secrets in a box and shut it away from prying eyes.
I don't know what made me so scared of my thoughts back then. But I do know, that I was. I was so scared that the internal editor didn't always allow me to put down my real thoughts. Only the ones that felt safe enough. I didn't even realise at this time that the internal editor was me. Too!
At this point, the little voice, the hashtag I have used for myself here on steemit, was the only voice that I would allow onto my journal pages. The Little Voice wasn't really little at all. What she was wasn't clear yet. She was finding herself during these years. It was a secretive time. It was a time where the little voice lied, if it felt the right thing to do.
It was a time of judgement and guilt. The guilt came when the lies sounded so real. And the judgement was...
I judged myself against the perceptions of the culture I found myself in.
A good girl.
A studious girl.
A kind girl.
A nice girl.
A naughty girl.
A wild girl.
Which one was I? All of them. The Little Voice was a little bit of each. But when I was only one, I was lying. And the list is much longer than what I have shared. There are still some aspects of me, that I cannot show. They haven't materialised yet. The journey hasn't finished yet.
What does this have to do with free writing? Well everything.
In another time and age, Virginia Woolf wrote an essay stating that for a woman to write fiction she had to have, 'A Room of One's Own' and money. In our age all she needs is internet access. The tool she chooses to use to write range from a phone to a desktop computer, but the stories, the fictions are hers now for the taking.
However, free writing requires you to free your mind. Free writing is something that requires you to switch off your internal editor, or allow your editor's words to mingle and flow within the stream of consciousness. All of YOU can be explored through free writing.
My own writing has come a long way since the days I boxed it up and hid it. One of the practises I thank for this is The Morning Pages. Julia Cameron's book, An Artist's Way, helped open me up to myself. Allowed me to look inside and see the whole, instead of the compartmentalised boxes I had stored inside of myself. I lie less these days. Who I am on steemit is pretty much who I am everyday. And the best part of this is that I like who I am. I don't have to pretend anymore. I don't have to judge. I don't have to feel guilty.
So what are the morning pages? I think the other Julia might be better at explaining them:
The Morning Pages
Put simply, the morning pages are three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness: "Oh, god, another morning. I have NOTHING to say. I need to wash the curtains. Did I get my laundry yesterday? Blah, blah, blah..." They might also, more ingloriously, be called brain drain, since that is one of their main functions.
As I read this quote from my copy of The Artist's Way, I am struck by another quote that the other Julia has included in the margin.
You need to claim the events of your life to make yourself yours
Anne-Wilson Schaef
I like this a lot. To me it speaks of responsibility. Events happen. Who takes responsibility for them though is what makes you YOURs.
A little bit of free writing can be fun
Okay, this is the third attempt at getting this post written. The first two editions were lost by my dumb ass self. I played about in steemauto and thought I'd type my post in the 'Schedule Post' section but didn't realise I couldn't add pictures in the same way as I do here.
Here, where I am sitting there is fire burning in the hearth. Outside the wind is blowing but I'm as snug as bug inside.
I stopped. I got lost for words. Where did they go? I'm sure they were there when I began to tap my fingers over the keyboard. Like I was tapping out some special music. A special beat. Only I can hear. There they go. Tap, tap, tap. Now glide.
It's funny but although the rhythm has returned I wonder how free I am. The internal editor is right there next to me. However, she isn't getting in the way of content, she's just ensuring that the words go down accurately. The touch typist in me feels her way around the QWERTY keyboard, knowing where each letter resides. Did I need a comma in the last line? I'll let it slide. This is what I love to do now. Play. Play. Play.
Ah, that's it the rhythm has slowed down. I might make less mistakes now. The backward key is tapped into me. No, it's tapped by me. Those two sentences have very different meanings. I'm sure you'll agree.
So this might not be my best piece of free writing. My earlier pieces, the ones I lost. The ones you'll never see. The ones that didn't make it to the end. They were better. You can take that from me. Remember I don't lie - so much - anymore.
