I keep a list of ideas for stories I want to write. Up until recently I had many options but my travel ideas have begun to dwindle. We usually take trips in the spring and the fall, hunkering down in summer and winter.
I asked my husband if we could do a day trip each week for the next few months to give me some material to write about. It has been more difficult than I expected to find local things to do that we have not done before. The where-to-go was starting to stress us both out which is silly. Although I view writing stories as my job, I love what I do and the last thing I want is for it to become is a drudgery as our professions sometimes do. It raised an interesting question: was I writing about my life or was I living for the purpose of writing about it?
Driving home from our first weekly adventure, I thought about this. I realized I shouldn’t worry. Going places, whether by car or by plane, is completely who Mister Rain and I are. How can that ever be a burden? We are so fortunate to be able to do so, it must never be taken for granted. New places and experiences are my passion and so is writing. When they both intersect, it is magic. Any steps to make those things happen can only be pure joy.
Do the things you love ever overwhelm you? Why do we do that to ourselves? Is it due to the fact that we are all so busy that even the fun stuff becomes one more thing we have to do? We need to be kinder to ourselves, to remind those dang inner thoughts to keep quiet when an item on our to do list is related to something that will bring us pleasure.
When you write about your life, everything is potential material. The hope is that it occurs organically, but sometimes seeds need deliberate planting. That doesn’t make them any less beautiful when they bloom.
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