There was a moment earlier today when someone near and dear to me passed by while I was thinking out loud about finding time in my day to write.

They commented something along the lines of “Not surprising since so many of your posts are about not wanting to do them.”

I was dumbfounded. I didn’t even reply in the moment because I was absolutely totally surprised by that assessment.

I guess that’s just one of those things about words. Like anything else, their interpretation is skewed by perception and experience. Most of us also do not recall all the words we read.

We absorb and interpret as we read the words. We are left with an impression. Possibly the reader is left with an impression of the whole, but often of just the parts that resonated most strongly on the initial absorption of thoughts.

Yes, I’ve written a few times about the mental challenges related to this undertaking. Finding the time to write in my day has been the most difficult piece of the puzzle. Like many puzzles though, I’m enjoying the process of fitting it all together.

I am frustrated by the juggle to figure out the pieces that form the frame. If I could just figure out the corner pieces, I’d feel more inside the puzzle. I have identified that one of the corners is when. When. When.

Time is absolutely one of those key corner pieces. It’s missing. I’m flipping over every piece of me to see the colors or shape on the other side. None of them are yet the corner-piece of when. The search for that frame is permeating my writing. Even this piece right now.

I can’t seem to figure it out. I keep landing at now. Late in the evening. 31 days or more ago this is when I would climb into bed and sleep. I can’t focus on before. Before is before. Now is now. I am in the now of the writing me. The writing me must figure this out because I will not allow this me to sleep until I extract another puzzle piece from the whole.

This time of day is the when I have, but not the when I want to have. It is after the swirl has settled and I can connect with writer me. Centering to that mental space with my own thoughts. Not about work. Dinner. Clean-up. Chores. Family. Ironing for tomorrow.  Not about everything else important, personal, swirling around me. The tempest of life. Adulthood . . Now is when I can connect with Writer Me. Me. Myself. I.

I know the stories, the jigsaw pieces, are inside me. The pieces are piled within a million similar seeming shapes and colors.

This process of penning self reflection. This project of mine to find the jigsaw puzzle of my inner writer. I might be missing the frame, but I’m not pausing to keep looking for it. I’m starting from the inside out not the outside in. I might be chugging harder than I need, but we are on these tracks together now.

The belief that I needed that frame to start. Or that I had to have a clear image that what will be formed upon completion to compare the puzzle against as it is being built. Perhaps that belief has caused me to separate from my writing self for so long.

This project is about foregoing that concept. About creation without a clear goal. No KPIs other than a minimum of 365 attempts to puzzle it all together.

I’m feeling encouraged. On my way. On the road. No clarity in the destination, but that feeling that if I keep on keeping on it will appear in the distance. A map will form itself with navigation to move me from this point to that point.

I may not be sure what is going to pour forth from mind into word. But here is the crux of what I’ve learned in the first month. I don’t need that clarity to begin.

The uncertainty can be scary and wear me out mentally, physically, and emotionally. But it is also exhilarating.

As the words sprout themselves into being, I am surprised, comforted, and filled with the belief that I can be more than I’ve been.

I can find my voice.
I can share my words.
They are mine.
They are not perfect.
They are not always easy.
Yet. . . these words are a gift to myself.

334 Days to go.

#OTR50