the decision

It was a beautiful Autumn day today. I sat outside with a book, loving the warmth of the sun on my neck. I was reading Earnest Hemingway's "A moveable feast." It's a favourite book of mine, because it's about Paris and also he writes so leanly, really gets to the guts of things. I've been thinking about writing lately and what it means to me. I think a long time ago I was faced with a choice, artist/writer. I went with the more romantic choice, which was quite enjoyable...art school was an indulgence that I'm grateful for having. I also chose artist because I couldn't really see how you could make a living from reading, which is what I've always done passionately. I think I was a bit thick, never made the connection between reading books and writing books. It was suggested that I might be a librarian or work in a bookstore but it seemed to me that I might work with the book but it would take away from my absolute necessity to read them. All the options seemed to sit on the edges of reading, I couldn't bear to do it and kept my reading a secret pleasure.
I'm older now, that torturous quest to find my identity still goes on, but the terrain has expanded to encompass all kinds of alternatives that couldn't be entertained in my youth. I'm trying not to run away from the things that terrified me for all the wrong reasons when I was young.
For 30 years now I've read books about writing and books about writers, I suppose it was how I lived my writing dream. Today, while sitting in the sun I knew it was time. Those self imposed walls have crumbled just enough to make a start along the road. In my copy of "Thunder and Lightning- cracking open the writer's craft" by Natalie Goldberg (my idol) she writes-

"I advise students to do only writing practice for two years to get in touch with their wild minds- to discover their true longings and fears. It's a strong foundation for writing: something you can rely on and go back to over and over.
Often the students balk- two years? But I'm taking this time to write- I have to prove myself. I have to publish, do meaningful work, I can't just fill notebooks." (pg 159)

The first time I read this book years ago, I balked. It's exactly what I said to myself. I've come round to it now though. When Natalie writes about 'writing practice' she doesn't just mean regular writing to improve, she is a zen practitioner who seriously considered taking vows until she decided to put all her effort into writing, when she writes, it is her practice, her meditation. I believe her, for so long I didn't want anything to do with writing because I was secretly fearful of what I thought was a product dependant activity.
I looked in my journal before (my current one.) The first entry was dated the 3rd of last month. So I guess I can book a room somewhere near the sea for Sunday the 3rd 2011 to go over all that I've done. Will it happen this time? Of course, I just need to shave my head, put on my black robe, check my mind in at the door and get that pen moving.