I had a lovely evening today, and as I walked home I was thinking about how I could write about it. I’m having a hard time classifying someone into a neat little nickname, and even now as I think, What do these nicknames really matter? I know how I feel about these people, I still feel an urge to somehow encapsulate her just right.
She’s strong, creative, talented. Any nickname I an think of relating to her job just seems non-namey. We shall call her Filmetta, though.
Anyway, Filmetta and I were supposed to drive down to have dinner with CurlyGirl this evening, but Filmetta was unwell. By the time the afternoon rolled around, she had managed to see her clients (she’s also another student counsellor. We are everywhere.) and ring me. We met up for a quick chat …well, one and a half hours…in our pocket of town. It was just this nice little break away from everyday reality.
Nice, quiet, continental-feeling restaurant. A small, intimate table. And just an interesting chat with a friend I really respect and enjoy the company of. It’s always nice when people you really like really like you back. I’m disappointed CurlyGirl wasn’t there, but in reality it was nice to have one-on-one time with Filmetta.
There is a mild level of relief that we didn’t talk about writing. The last time I met up with her, she was encouraging me to write screenplays and offered to hook me up with some filmmakers. Saying it could be interesting to just write short films, which is an area she has done a lot of work in. I found myself feeling really motivated – and really pressured. Still, I was high on initiave the day after this first meal, going into town to a film shop and buying some screenplays to read. I was all hyped up on the idea of getting her copies of Oscar and Bafta nominated screenplays so I could see what a real script looked like. Hell, I even came home and wrote about a page and a half.
I don’t know what my issue with writing is, or why I suppose I must feel pretty crap about my ability. I used to think I was great, and now I don’t know. Perhaps in an oblique way, I’ve spent the last (almost) two years with Kleinette stepping into my own pile of Existere-shit, and figuring out how to welcome it into my life. I feel like it’s the unknown, and therefore terrifying.
I feel the same way about starting a business and becoming self-employed. Filmetta neatly killed my anxiety this evening by matter-of-factly explaining exactly what I needed to do, essentially slapping me about a bit and saying, ‘There is nothing to be anxious about.’ It was helpful, and know I feel that the unknown is a little more known. And therefore achieveable.
I long for some sort of creative mentor who can serve the same sort of function.
I think I need a ‘grown up’ to hold my hand and sort of usher me around. Yet I loathe the idea of trying to actively get myself a mentor. When a well known author joined a Buddhist email group I belong to – and identified herself as living in my city – I felt a lot of emotions…none of them very positive. I just sort of have this phantasy/fantasy of opening myself to the idea of allowing myself to be helped, and then The Helper just neatly stepping into the frame. Because somehow they’ve received the notification that it’s time to enter, stage left.
I am always helping others, and perhaps it’s hard to admit that I might really, really need someone to help me. I am sure Filmetta would be the first to say I could do this on my own. I just want to stamp my feet and say, ‘But I don’t want to do it on my own. I’m scared. I’m really scared.’
I know she’d also be the first one to step in and offer practical and emotional support if I veered towards screenwriting, but screenwriting doesn’t seem where I want to be. It’s an arena that has been offered to me in the past, and I don’t know. Did I not leap at it because it wasn’t right, or because my fear was too strong?
I am happiest writing about my own experiences, thoughts, processes. I like trying to welcome all the bits of myself that might float away back into my life. The whiny, the glorious, the angry. Everything that I am, all the colours that are part of me, ever ebbing and flowing and changing. I don’t know how to box that up neatly onto paper, and sometimes I wish Someone would just give me an assignment to write something, because then I could do it. I don’t know what it is about me, but I feel like I can’t take any real level of responsibility for myself in this arena.
I do see myself quite easily writing about therapy in the future. That doesn’t give me a problem. I somehow don’t classify that as ‘writing.’ And ‘writing’ is what I have a problem with.
It’ll be hard to be away for eight days and not have access to a computer. I clarify and process myself through these blogs, and wonder what it will be like to not come home and pin myself up like a butterfly each evening. Instead I’ve just got to fly around and be beautiful.