I bought some index cards in the hopes that I would use them to outline my novel and nail-down the characters and their roles toward the plot and some other writer tricks I had seen or read about. That was almost a year ago.
I still have no novel.
The index cards, up until last week, were still in their plastic wrapping all shiny and new.
I was thinking about the 10 non-virtues of Buddhism and how I have not avoided them to some degree or another, either now or in the past, despite my great work. I was going through the catalog of my shortcomings and seeing how my ego and limited points-of-view had stressed the many parts of my life and I want to make things better, not only for me, but for everyone around me. I could see how I was unintentionally, or at least subconsciously poisoning my environment and adding to my karma. Karma will drag you down.
Karma is like credit card debt; it keeps piling up and making things harder for you in the long run.
So I was uncluttering my go-bag and came across the index cards and thoguht they could be useful to document my shortcomings and show a way for me to stop hurting myself and other people. I started writing what it was I did wrong. I had to step outside of all of the chatter in my head that was saying, “Hey, its OK to do this, after all YOU deserve this, or THEY deserve that, or its NOT HURTING ANYONE THAT MUCH anyway.”
I went through about twenty cards, all filled on one side with the things in my life that did not really benefit anyone at all, let alone myself.
After I reread the cards a couple of times and meditated on how I could make things right, I started to turn the cards over and write what I would do or how I would approach the karma or suffering or shortcomings in my life. Positives for negatives. I was balancing the equation that is myself. I was going to make things better and since then I’ve been feeling good and catching myself before I open my mouth to speak harshly or thinking to judge without compassion.
And you know what?
I’ve been feeling really good. Things are getting better.
I used to be a sculptor and had moments where I’d go into my studio and try to get a piece together. I’d write in my journal, try to work through my block, etc. and what ended up happening was I felt better, happier, but I was making less art. It was as if I was sloughing off aspects of myself that weren’t me. Eventually, although it was a torturous process, I stopped making art altogether. It was an immense weight lifted off of my shoulders.
The idea of ‘following my bliss’ to be an artist was ultimately wrong. I believed I’d be happy if I was a successful artist but what actually made me happy was writing my thoughts and doing similar exercises like you describe above. Seems like you’re having a similar battle with your novel?
Yes, I’d say it has been quite a battle. The idea of a novel seems more fun than actually writing the novel.
Sometimes I pick up a book that is a #1 New York Times bestseller or a Pulitzer winner and I think, hmm what would it be like to have created this, to be the author. But then I remember that “we’re all one” and the like and I think, okay, if I’m one with everything then I AM the author of this book. So I pretend ‘believe’ that I am for a second and with all the ‘acclaim’ and ‘millions’ I have I still feel like me. I have a feeling the authors feel a lot like themselves too. What we desire is never as romantic as our imagination of what we desire. Sigh.
I, also, do not feel just like anyone else. Maybe we aren’t all “one” the way we perceive “one” to be. Maybe using “one” is the best way to express an idea of all of us coming from the same source?
Very true about desire. I’ve learned that I don’t feel best when I’ve finally gotten what I’ve wanted, but in earning or creating something. The fame and the money don’t matter much because I, and not the one, did something that came from me.
Accomplishing something makes me feel happy.