After ~2 months only reading my own writings (I am final editing one of my manuscripts) and work materials (any writers-with-day-jobs out there?), here comes the time when I am back reading words crafted by others. I chose this one (bought literally 10 min ago) as I need to boost my self confidence a little. And while there is no such thing as two writing journeys being the same, I usually get inspired by knowing how fellow authors did it. 📖🤩
Three countries behind and I keep feeling misplaced. Our entire life boxed up. My 23kg suitcase carrying solely the essentials. I am a current of all sorts of emotions, each one battling for my attention like twenty ‘hangry’ five-year olds trapped in a 20 square metres classroom. I cannot help but embrace this chaos all at once. This is enough for now. Six months from now I will be able to take it all in. Maybe. A discomfort I know too well.
What is essential when an uncomfortably discomfort of never feeling at home follows me wherever I go?
Greasy, fat food. Ten kilos overweight. No house of my own. Zero access to the gym. A disfunctional laptop. And wardrobe. You name it.
I peel layer by layer to reach the vortices and slayer a whirlwind of emotions to uncover pieces of an intricate messed-up charade. Every. Single. Day. I am close yet I am unsure that I have all the pieces. I am sure that I can offer closure to this eternal conflict but I am uncertain that closure will happen soon enough and, oh, I wish it did, how I wish it so did. I am giving it time and my time, I am giving it love. I am giving it my flesh, my heart, my soul.
I am giving it space.
People say that home is where the heart is. Family, friends, even some acquaintances make the cut. People is where my heart is. I miss my people. Our powerful connections.
Two days until we catch the plane to our fourth country. A new beginning. Our final stop. I will root my planted feet so deep in that land and shout ‘HOME!’ to all passing by. But will my disconnected heart be able to call it home?
Never feeling at home stings me like a wasp, bothers me like thorns of roses on the bottom of my feet perpetuously hurting the thin skin, but like all hurtful things, I either carry on hurt as I am or I get rid of it. I tend to get rid of it but pay a price too high for my own good. It is no good.
There is beauty in carrying on. Thriving welcomes maturity. Maturing provides me with clarity on what essentials I need to carry on and carry forward to feel homy deep within. To feel light. To be light. I am so bright that I will not torch my path.
Avocado toast and fresh fruit. Three kilos lighter. A 2-story house with patio and orange tree. Workout at six a.m. Write every day. Capsule wardrobe. Just to call out a few.
For my own good.
I stole their voices, their stories, their craft.
Reading while writing was an awful distraction for many years.
It filled me up.
I felt like a copycat.
I was anything but original and originals are required. Story, craft. You have both? You have award-winning best-sellers.
So I avoided it. Reading, I mean. But I could never stay away for too long.
So I started small. Strengthening my writing muscles. Keeping the story simple so I can perfect the craft.
Slow. Very slow.
I wouldn't steal anymore: I played around.
There were layers.
I kept going, writing while reading.
Learning from all, reading while writing.
My craft finally firm. My voices mine.
I'm firm. I'm mine. I'm ready.
I'm free to read while writing.
