100 Days! 

 Yesterday was the 100th day since I was hit by that car door. It has been a long 100 days where I’ve experienced some deep moments of darkness as well as moments of grace and love. It’s hard for me to believe that when I was struck down the unofficial start of summer had just past, Memorial Day. Now as we slip by the unofficial end of summer with Labor Day I cannot believe that my summer is over as we move toward the cooler months of fall. In a way it does sadden me that I have lost this past summer unable to do the things I love to do, especially cycling. Yet, in a strange way this down time has given me the gift of patience and fortitude. I shall not slip off into that dark night quietly or just ride off into some future sunset, life is way too important just to give up. During this time of rehabilitation I have been doing a lot more reflecting and thinking about where I am and where I hope to be some day.  Tomorrow evening I will begin a six week writing class at Grub Street, a writing school down in Boston. I’m taking what is called, Jump Start Your Writing, which I hope does just that helping me to focus more and to find that elusive writing voice. This is something that I have been wanting to do for a long time. I have taken a few other courses one that pushed getting published, way too much for the introvert that I am, and another online course that helped me to begin experimenting with various genres. In my blog I have experimented a bit with some fiction and non-fiction as well as played around with words. Some of the writing is okay while some of it is not, but I’m really not doing this for any kudos but more as a way to work out the psychological kinks that inhabit us all. 

 It’s really not that easy vomiting out ones inner most fears and weirdness onto paper, in this case my iPad, but I think that is what many authors do letting the chips fall where they may. My own introversion acts more like a prison warden than a gatekeeper as I re-read a passage and that, not so still or small voice, screams at me that this is just pure shit and I shouldn’t be wasting anyone’s time with this drivel. It’s kind of like what I read would be hell for my Myers-Briggs typology, INFP, where all my inner most thoughts were put on display on some huge screen and thought to be insipid and colorless. Yet, here I am plunging into the deep-end unsure if I will be able to keep my head above the surface and not drown in a sea of fear and doubt.

 Regardless of what may happen or where I go with my writing I know I go with a new sense of my own inner strength. Like retraining my leg muscles to work correctly again, which looks to be a long process, my writing will also challenge me in new ways and also will be a long process. I’m definitely under no illusion of becoming the next best selling author, but I am beginning to believe that I am a writer. By admitting that much I am also admitting my own weaknesses as I plunge head first into this world, a world in which I have only nipped at the edge but now fully immerse myself into. Is it scary, hell yes, it is, but really what choice do I have. 

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