Often I forget that life exists on a continuum.
Black and white—that’s the world I inhabit.
There, things are clear-cut, simple, easy to understand.
I am either good or bad. I am acting crazy or sane. I am productive or unproductive.
But that isn’t life, is it? Things aren’t so cut-and-dry.
Life is a continuum. We are continuums in miniature.
Let’s take a single moment: right now. Sit back, close your eyes, think about your life, and allow your mind to let the thoughts come in naturally, without targeting anything specific…
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We write and we believe through the act of writing we are being honest.
The paper, to the pen, to the hand, the arm, the head, the brain.
A straight line. Connected. Mind to output.
But there are no straight lines in this floating space of existence.
No full clarity, no open view of ourselves. Not through anything, and not through writing.
Still, we do our best to create, and that’s all we can do.
I want to tell you that we can only write and write and in the practice of writing hope to distract ourselves from ourselves and therein discover some form of truth. The salamander caught lounging under a rock.
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There is the paralysis of not knowing what to say. What should be said. What should be heard.
There is the freedom of simply saying.
Of sitting down while your brain recedes to the background and your fingers move to the foreground so the things that come out are those which themselves wish to be said, which have been waiting, paused, held floating within your ribcage, hoping for you to unbar the gates.
There is the reaction, and there is the release.
We base often the release on the anticipated reaction even though reaction, by definition, is a thing that follows.
The focus, if we can commit to honesty (and can’t we?), should be on the release.
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“Act as if.”
You can probably figure out what it means, but I’ll nonetheless offer a little furtherance: Act as if means to play pretend with hope that your feelings and life follow the intent.
“ You might also say “Fake it ’til you make it.”
It’s so simple—it’s playing pretend—yet so much resistance arises (for me, at least) in implementing the behavior.
This is not support group mumbo jumbo, these are scientifically-backed mottos.
You’ve probably heard how smiling actually makes people happier or people with botox literally become less angry overall because they are less able to make angry faces.
These are just a few ways psychologists have proven that we are much more able to influence our feelings with our actions than we think.
I’ve been working on inhabiting this space, this life, as a writer for about eight months now.
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When I began writing this blog October, it was for the premeditated purpose of gaining an audience for when my book launched.
All the authors whom I’d listened to in interviews said that this was the main thing they would’ve done differently if they were starting over fresh because the email audience turned out to be their top buyers.
Being the go-getter that I am, I rode the coattails of their mistakes all the way to town.
Well, I mean, it’s a small town; I don’t have many subscribers.
But it turns out I wasn’t doing the blog thing just to gain an audience for my book.
I was blogging for a lot of reasons that I had yet to realize.
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You haven’t heard of Life Block?
Well, look, you know what writer’s block is…
Life Block is writer’s block…but with life.
Allow me to explain…
When we have writer’s block, it’s usually either because
1. We are not informed enough on the subject at-hand
2. We’re fearful of the finished product (often subconsciously)
3. We’re simply too disinterested to put in the work.
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The great thing about real fog—the misty, creeping stuff—is that you tend to know it’s there.
You look out the window in the morning or descend a road into some rolling country valley and you know that you must treat the world, the outside, with care.
Safety becomes a concern. It’s automatic.
Turns out that mental fog doesn’t work that way.
Instead, it’s in you as much as you’re in it.
It’s snaking through your ears, resting on the crevices of your brain, wafting out your mouth as you smile and chat with a friend…
Without realizing it, you’ve simply become enveloped.
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Here’s the thing:
I am 100% reluctant to write this post.
I’m not blogging about love and stuff. I’m not a teenager anymore. You don’t want to see the things I was writing then.
But the subject matter? Ohhh, I’m still dealing with that.
Fine. It’s love stuff. And I’m writing about it.
But why not? Is there a creative person out there—a person out there—who doesn’t get thrown off by love or some bastardization therein?
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