My name is Kaye, and I eat Tim Tams at midnight

In the darkness of the closed door and drawn blinds, my face glows in the warmth of the monitor. Its sweet touch tickles my chin, my nose, and my brow before sparkling off my eyes. It’s still late (although maybe now it’s early) and I’m still typing. Finally.

Ive been dying to write now for weeks. But every day the monitor growls at me and falls back to sleep – unenthused with what I offer to the mercy of the keyboard. Its not enough. Once upon a time I toyed with being a ‘writer’. I entertained the notion that I could write always, effortlessly, and continually and maybe, just maybe, make ‘a living’ from my pursuit. But perhaps I was guilty of dividing my attention elsewhere, second-guessing any talent (see what I did there?), and jumping on the merry-perfectionist bandwagon driven by dear old friend, Procrastination. Whichever way, Ive got plenty of excuses lined up as to why Monitor and I do not cooperate more often than we do. Oh but when we do its glorious! But mostly we are a bickering belligerent old couple. And I begin to resign myself to the fact that I can never create nor direct my desire to write… it happens when it happens. And that’s why my title generally reads, ‘Design student slash professional slash model’, more often than ‘Writer’.

I recently visited a life coach. That should sound empowering, but in my control freak/highly self-sufficient mind, to say that aloud is like standing up in a room of equally bedraggled and ashamed faces to say, “I ate an entire box of Tim Tams last night at 1am while everyone else slept”. Everyone has been there, but no-one wants to be brutally honest with a stranger. So as you can imagine, its a little confronting to say the least. Oh don’t get me wrong, aside from the nauseating anxiety thrashing around in the pit of my stomach, my coach is very good(!). But I had much difficulty trying to articulate in words and on paper what my ideal/dream life could have in it. Quite clearly the only thing I knew for certain when he asked me what I would attempt if I knew that everything I did would be enough and perfect was, “Something else”. But I don’t think I even told him that. I thought about how much I tried to squeeze into my life every day and thought, do I really have to write? It takes up so much of time, it doesn’t achieve anything, there are no rewards, benefits, goals or recognition (not by my measuring stick anyway). Had I made a mistake entirely with any pursuit of this vision thus far?

Intense right?

Yet, ultimately the moment I was drawn back to my slightly obsessive and yet truly sporadic jaunts through the land of language, I stopped thinking about all these things. There was only one thing I felt as I poured whatever thoughts I had onto the screen (Im a bit new-fashioned that way, I rarely use a pen). And it was joy. And the screen beckoned me into its purring embrace.

I had stopped measuring my writing by the good old joystick (and Im not talking about circa-1998 Nintendo64). I was looking at the ‘things’ I could get for my efforts, rather than taking the one thing that I knew was guaranteed… Joy. Why would I ever do something I didn’t want to? And similarly, why wouldn’t I do something I enjoyed so much?? It may be sporadic, it may be obsessive, and it may rob me of my sleep at obscure times (she says, dimming the lights on the bedside clock that grin in agreement) but it’s FUN. I work two jobs and study a degree qualification – writing is my solace, my therapist, my meditation and my medication, my joy, and my fun. And I don’t do it for anything else.

My name is Kaye Waterhouse, your newest addition to Writers Rising. I am 25, living in Melbourne, Australia. Quite possibly everything you’ll ever need to know about me, you’ll find

Here; http://www.klarityandkaos.blogspot.com/

Here; http://www.designfits.wordpress.com/

And here; http://www.inspirationunplugged.com/

And of course, subsequent entries at Writers Rising. Im thrilled to join you   :o)

xx   Kaye

<<< This is me on Easter Sunday just gone....with the most incredible creature on this planet.

Ripples and Swells the Words of Writing

    I went through a door today. Well, I almost went through a door. My brain saw a door and literally, without thinking, I went through. Almost. That’s what you do with doors. You see a door and you go through the door, unless it is stuck. It was one of those embarrassing moments that usually happen when you’re running into a store and push on a door with a huge lettered sign that says pull. Like a bird mistaking the reflection of the trees in the window for trees I went crashing into the door. And yes, there was an audience, there’s always an audience. Like the tiny bird I just stood there looking at the door. It was a door. Doors open. You go through doors. You go in doors. You go out of doors. Maybe it was the concussion that made me daft but this really bugged me.
    The long strong arm from a production worker who, with one motionless swoop, opened the door cleared my daftness. As I exited the room I warned those I met to be on the alert for the infamous door. They thanked me. Unfortunately I caught a glance of them looking back as the door opened with grace and beauty. Harumfph. I was so not pleased now.
    “What do you see when you write?” was the innocent but teasing question asked of me not long ago. I knew the answer. I had visualized it day after day for more decades than I care to count. “Bread crumbs” was my reply. Writing is my way of leaving bread crumbs for those who come down the path after me. Writing was my prayer, my bread crumbs that would hopefully leave a trail for others. Bread crumbs to warn of danger. Bread crumbs to encourage others to not give up there was water just around the bend. Bread crumbs to let them know they were not alone that others had walked this path and were not far away. My words were bread crumbs.
    Tonight I see a different image. My words are no longer bread crumbs. My words are ripples, little swells in the ocean of life. A water skier can use them to gain speed. A child floating may giggle as the swell tickles its way underneath the raft. Another boat may follow the current left by the swell. A renegade beach ball may be pulled from the shore by the swells. The course they take, the path and current they travel are their own. Our ripples and swells may crash against each other and merge into yet an even bigger ripple and swell. There will also be times when my words, the ripples and swells will lie still or imperceptible beneath the surface. That is ok for that is what swells and ripples do.
    Perhaps it is a concussion but I am left with one final image-why would I leave bread crumbs to a door that I think is stuck? No, I think my words shall be ripples and swells. I pray they will tease, delight, carry and hasten the journey of others or give them reason to pause and just float. Everyone’s path or current will be different than mine, for the path is just that it is every one’s, not mine. And with that, I shall go check out concussions on Web MD and bask in the swells of others. That’s what ripples and swells do. I’ll save the bread crumbs for our lunch on the beach.

note - also posted on my blog