Day 6

She was hitting the wall. She barely made a week writing any kind of material, and she would lose interest. Looking at a blank piece of paper now was seen as a challenge but also more like a block, a mountain to climb that seemed to get bigger every day. Why was it suddenly not so charming or wonderful to see a blank page? What was worse, why couldn't she stick to something beyond initial creation, seeing something through to its maturity or to the end? She would get stuck and suddenly things weren't fun anymore.

Just as when she joined the gym, she found herself pushing to get to do something that just three days before she was able to do with no problem, it was a pleasure, there was no debate or question, no dragging of the feet. Now that she had challenged herself to write and really stick to it, the discipline was affecting her, the knowing that this was something she had to do, to prove something to herself and feeling the beginnings of disappointment and anger that she was feeling resistance and pressure and that made the process unlikeable and then unpleasant.

She would suddenly worry about things. She would focus on things she couldn't control or things she had seemingly seemed fine with before. Inane projects, half finished projects would suddenly take on meaning, suddenly there was a need to start finishing those projects, and then...she would find herself in the midst of a bunch of unfinished projects, all started, just never finished. It frustrated her and amused those close to her. "Finish what you start," one would say to her, and she would fall into a depression and shut down, all work abandoned, and the projects would just simply take room and gather dust.

She lived in fear of being a hoarder, one of those people who had a psychological problem, who held on to things that just grew into seemingly out of control messes. Could she become one of these people, who kept stuff and just held on to it, never changing, nothing growing except the piles of garbage in their homes, alienating friends and family until they are in their own hell on earth?

Talking to people about her issues sometimes helped. But then she didn't have a large group of people to consult with, and so those few would keep hearing the patterns of her issues everytime she found herself bumping heads with it. All her life she wanted to complete the Great American Novel. No small feat. And apparently somewhat of a tall order to complete. Each year she would resolve to write that novel, that short story. She had written poetry, and got one published. Beyond that, nothing more.

She searched through her purse, looking for something. She pulled out a pen and again opened her blank book. She would write. And write as much as she could, each and every day. It was not about quality but quantity. She would continue to move forward, push the distracting thoughts aside, make the time, make the effort. She smiled, as she put pen to paper and watched the words appear for the first time on the page. Her hand felt sure, her handwriting was strong, unwavering.

She suddenly wasn't thinking about him, she wasn't thinking about the day job, or where her life or relationships were going. Time had stood still or maybe time was just simply not relevant. The time to create was now, and she was just going with the flow, letting the words pour out of her and onto the paper. She didn't want to think, she didn't want to stop, she just wanted to keep on going.

Before she knew it, three pages were filled, and her hand was cramping. She wondered for a second if maybe this was her body trying to stop her. The train was still moving but the sun was in another position now and was shining brightly inside the train car. "What time is it?" she asked. She turned and found him sleeping, in an upright position, head leaning against the train car window. She smiled, and went back to writing two more pages before finding her thoughts petering out. She put her book and pen away, took a deep satisfied sigh, and then drank some water. The break was well deserved, she thought.

She looked out the window from her seat and watched the trees and various greenery go by. They were no longer in the city. She felt her body relax. No concrete to see. No one to bump into. She was free to relax and just observe. As she watched the greenery zip by, she imagined she could fly, catching up to the train, feeling the leaves brush by her as she flew by, racing with the train easily.

It was a thought she'd had since childhood. Flying. Being free. She smiled unknowingly. She glanced at him. He was still sleeping. She carefully put a blanket over him and went to the bathroom then to the snack bar to get some sandwiches and drinks.