When in doubt, take a nap.
Not really.
I haven't been sleeping well lately. I've never made that complaint before. Sure I've had nights where sleeping just wasn't working out for me, but not usually several nights in a row. Maybe I'm just doing it wrong. I was in bed for an hour and a half, trying not to toss and turn and wiggle. My head pounded, my ears popped, and my throat scratched. I was miserable. I fetched some water and a large dose of tylenol and went back to bed. I think it was another half hour before sleep finally came, and then it was frail and sporadic.
Alex says I need to wear myself out and go to bed at 10. I'm not sure if that would work. But something's gotta give because the fall semester fast approaches and I teach at 8 a.m. I've got to be ready and peppy for those students, even though I likely won't get that from them.
I'm just over halfway done reading Yanni In Words. I love it. I borrowed it from a friend but I've decided I'll have to get my own copy, so that I can reread it whenever I need a boost. I thought about writing a fan letter, but fan mail is cheesy and I'm not really sure what the likelihood would be of him actually reading it. LOOK AT ME: I am a writer that is avoiding writing because I assume that my work will never be read! What kind of life is that! I am so ashamed right now, of myself and that I could even THINK of limiting myself in that way. I'll write the letter. It will be the most gorgeous letter I've ever written. If it is read by the intended audience, fantastic. If not, at least I wrote it.
If other writers had said the same to themselves, nothing would ever have been accomplished. And yes, it is about recognition and, I suppose, a "public" that recognizes your name and your work and appreciates it. I don't like to call that fame, but maybe that's what it is.
I wonder where my passion went. As if it is gone from me. Hidden. I want it back. That is my greatest fear--that I have lost my passion to some black void. That it is irretrievable. I remember having such passion so regularly that I didn't know what to do with it. I applied it to everything. Then what? Where did it go? Now I only see it sometimes? I don't know. I want it back. Music was my passion, and love, and friendship, and dancing (mostly spinning in circles) in the sun. I threw myself into everything. Poetry. Cleaning the chicken coop. Standing up for myself and my sanity. Making my opinion known. What are these things but the result of passion? And of course, finding myself. And I realized that instead of embracing who I am, I reject it and am never happy with myself. Then I whine about my inability to change myself into that person (that unknown person) that I want to be. I want to be me, but I want others to see something different. I don't want them to see me.
Like this is about maintaining an image. I'm not sure what this is about. Me, being me, and my passion. Letting it rage. It needs out. I've kept it locked away and starved for so long that I've almost become blind to it. Why did I put it away? Whatever made me think that was a good idea?
Today is step one. Today I will find my passion and I'll stuff it full of the things that make my heart soar. I'll stuff it full of the things that make me crazy, the things that make people look askance at me, the things that make me roar with life so everyone else can hear.
If people call me passionate now, with my real passions locked away, then they will be blown away once I've got the real deal back in the game. They won't know how to respond. And then you'll see it in my writing too. Then what will they call me? It is a challenge I am willing to face and take head on.
Therefore, I will write the letter to Yanni. I will unlock my passion and feed it what it needs. I will make myself known.
I will.
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