the life of a writer

I’ve been thinking a lot about my life as a writer. I think I’ve even written about this before.

Since I’ve been in my new apartment, I’ve had room to spread out my things (my notebooks, books, and pens) and make room to actually be creative in my own space.

And, I thought that being here would make me “less stressed” as a writer; “less cluttered”.

LOL. As they say.

I’ve come to the conclusion that life as a writer is flat out messy.

I’ll paint you a picture of what it looks like right now.

I have a bookshelf across the room, overflowing with books. Next to me is a bedside table, that is filled with a Bible and a few devotionals. Next to those are a stack of books that I’ve chosen (from the previously discussed bookshelf across the room) that I feel are “relevant” right now including about one from each sub-genre including a self-help book, a biography, a few mysteries, Brene Brown’s new book “Atlas of the Heart” which works on multiple levels, and two poetry books. Moving to the floor next to the bedside table, I have my morning notebook with a booklight attached so I’m able to write in the dark, along with another notebook that I’ve also been writing in for quite some time. Currently next to me on my actual bed, is my open Bible notebook with two pens and a pencil laying in it, another Bible, TWO more notebooks, my third planner, and some other goal planner I’ve accumulated over time. If I were to walk across the room and describe what’s on my desk, you’d be much too overwhelmed.

I’m overwhelmed.

It’s even messier that I’m a teacher because I have a pile of papers from school on the floor as well.

I’ll admit, I am trying to figure out how this is going to work for me. I’m trying to give myself grace, to figure this all out.

However, I will say that for as chaotic as it sounds, it is organized in my own head.

But, I have to wonder, even when I do get more “organized” and my routines and habits get all wrinkled out, I have this odd feeling that I’m not the only writer who is living like this. I can’t be.

I can’t be the only writer who is driving and frantically trying to jot something down before you lose it (without crashing your car). I can’t be the only writer who lives narrated by the poetry spoken in their head. I can’t be the only writer that feels just chaotic. With words always floating around their head. Like they just can’t get it all down. Like they’re missing things they’ll never get back.

What would it be like to not perceive the world this way?

What would it be like to not notice everything? Anything?

What would it be like to never feel like you have to write something down?

…

I don’t know.

I don’t know that I want to know.

love always, caitlin