I just realized why the prospect of writing fiction doesn’t enchant me the way it used to. I’m too attached to my own character. I have an obsessive streak of self-checking, self-awareness, self-righteousness, self-justification and comparing.
Somewhere in my psychological evolution I became terrified of being forgotten. And now it springs forth in my daily doings and goings on as an internal worldview commentated endlessly by a Tourette’s-like spout of comparisons to ME. I watch TV, “Who would do that? I would never do that”. I read a book, “Why isn’t she worried about being late? I hate being late.” I talk with someone, listening, waiting for my moment… “well here’s what I think.” As if there is someone else listening to this conversation and I must convince them that I exist here as my own being, with my own legs.
I do get this is normal. Most all of us have some of this, since we are each the eyes of our own universe. And still I’m getting a mini “a-ha” today, feeling how this is a total creativity stopper. How comparing everything to who we think we already are is a super way to avoid allowing in those little changes and shifts and gifts that grow us up.
I know this ME-ness is just a thin skin layer away from something different. My night life is a rich, rich dream world, overflowing with fiction. Most of my dream characters are strangers to me, doing strange things. And they are compelling even to my self-absorbed self. They are my constant, first-thing-in-the-morning reminder that I’m full of much more than my voices say I am.
I had my birthday Tarot reading a couple weeks ago, and it called upon my “dreamer” as a guide and source of wisdom. I think I see what it’s getting at. Dreams, awake or asleep, are the salve on wounds of change. I fear hugely changing my sense of self – it rocks my world (not in the good way.) But dreaming about something different, now that’s colored with hope. It’s a brightly colored thread coming out of my chest to grab on and follow, even if it means putting all the ME-ness up on a shelf.
My world is full of change now. Earthquake change. Gotta find a place to live in the next 30 days and move. And I’ll be moving alone, away, apart from my closest, best person. Maybe it’s time for an experiment in fiction. Not as an escape, but as the antidote to all those voices who are telling me all this change outside will change who I am. As a train taking me past all the self stuff, straight on course to Source.