I haven't written in such a long time. This is a writing prompt from writing.com.
|I'm supposed to write for ten minutes straight without editing. I have to admit that it has been a long time since I've written, well, anything, really. Years and years and years. I used to write constantly, consistently, fervently. Now, I am lucky if I can write anything at all. I miss those days of creativity, really. I was so caught up in the creation of worlds and lives and wonderful characters that could fill my days with excitement and journeys I'd never take in reality.
So, today, sitting here at my internship, I began fanning through the writing prompts and this came up. It seemed a bit less challenging than the specific ones, like writing a poem about the number thirteen. Here, I can let my thoughts flow and stream and become something other than the boring things they have been lately.
Did you know that I've even ceased dreaming? Of course not. How could you? But I have. My dreams are just jumbles that don't even surface when I wake because they have no value or purpose or message. I used to be able to tell myself stories as I went to sleep, but even those are gone. I can't even think of things to ease myself into sleep anymore. And that is a little bit sad for me.
However, now I am finding that the longing to write has returned. Unfortunately, I have nothing to write. Or, actually, let's be truthful for a minute. It isn't that I have nothing to write, but rather that I fear that the writing is not the same, that from lack of use, it will be vapid and empty and boring and a loss...a waste. Maybe it will be. Is this a waste? I don't know. I thought that I'd be writing about the surge of desire that has been filling me of late, the longing to move to a new place in my life and to meet him, but, really, the fear of meeting him kind of counteracts the desire, yet it remains. There are seasons for this. Seasons of longing mixed in with seasons of contentment. Yeah, I thought that I was going to write this deeply emotional piece about my future husband.
I don't know anything about him except that he is madly and completely in love with Christ, is older than me, has long hair, and is from Texas. Okay, the last one is a feeling, rather than a true knowing thing.
Here's something of interest, since I opened this can of worms and moved on beyond my lack of recent writing. Today, due to the movie screen not being on (the projector not being on, I mean), I thought about how a group had walked in that had a male in it, as mainly women were in the theater to watch the anniversary showing of The Dark Crystal, and I thought, "Wouldn't it be great if a man was actually a considerate gentleman and went and mentioned that the projector wasn't on?" As I thought about that, I told God, "You know, I don't want what all the feminists demand. I want to be treated like a princess. I want to be treated with kindness and gentleness and have him open doors and spread his jacket over puddles and go tell the cinema staff that the projector isn't on without anger or complaining or making me do it. I want a man that fixes things without being asked and cooks dinner once in awhile just because he loves me."
It's vapid. I think that there are so many things about marriage that I just know are distantly dreamed of by me and am I even ready? No.
So, back to the writing thing. This started out really, really slowly. I can't even tell you how difficult it was to get the words to flow again. I think talking about the lack of writing was a failure on my part and made it slow going, because the words sure flowed when I was thinking about him. I don't really think about him. I don't want to be disappointed. By the way, the man did not go and tell the staff that the projector wasn't on. A woman from another group ultimately went, minutes before the movie was to begin. So, again, the princess rescued herself.
Why didn't I go, you ask? I was there alone and would have had to gather my purse and jacket and such in order to do so. Not horribly inconvenient, I'll admit, but wouldn't the story and this freewrite have ended much better if the man had rescued all the princesses in the theater?