Writing Opportunity #13 – How My Mind Tackles a Project

So this is my entry for my latest writing opportunity. It was definitely one of the shortest prompts:

“I can …”

“I can’t …”

200 words.

Yeah, that’s it; as usual, I went over my word count. (As usual, it’s my blog, so I can do whatever I want.)

You know how people categorize decades of their lives by what they’ve learned, like a theme? For example, I learned a lot about being more independent in my 20s. As I approach 38 and look back on my 30s, I think I’ve learned a lot about how my brain works and the amazing (and shocking) revelation that most people don’t process information like me. I probably have undiagnosed ADD, but I question that because when I am focused on something, I iron-focus; I am seriously gone. School was always easy for me, but if I can’t see the point, I’ll check out. Maybe that’s the defiant streak in me.

Anyway, here’s my (over) 200-word account on one lobotomized slice of me.

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I can make a deadline when there is little lifeline in view.

But only if I see its true purpose. It must pulse through my veins to buzz my attention. Make my scalp hurt because my hair follicles tingle.

Possibilities solidify into clear staircases moving the journey upward to atmospheres deemed too lofty or grievously demented.

It feels like home.

Coal is put into my engine to ignite strikethroughs, outlines, layers of research.

I feel alive in the flow.

But, sometimes, the excitement wanes when the wealth of raw data, strings of informational gems, post-it notes of jots and jots pile up to become my poverty. If connections refuse to link and epiphanies are fleeting, I will destroy the work within approximately 10 days. That’s the shelf life for an idea unless it shows worth to be pumped with a preservative.

At that point, the questions slither in.

Where is the substance? The mission? The point?

Does this even matter? Do I have anything new to offer?

Am I even the right surgeon for this job?!

A swamp of stillness overcomes my mind, the room I’m in, and out the driveway. I’m suspicious of anything and everything.

I should cut my losses and focus on more respectable and practical errands to keep me afloat. No discovery. No adventure. There’s no time for that silliness. How old are you again?

NOPE. Just can’t do “what everyone else is doing.” I’m too hungry for crumbs that fall in the midst of the feast.

I’ll just forge a new trail. Look around another leg of the table.

Forcing a new chapter brings great joy. Dissecting the fibers of life, faith, flesh, and rescue are too intriguing.

The groaning of the earth, the curling layers of constant pilgrimage.

Foraging and peeling back this expanse is what I was meant to do.

I just can’t not.

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This one felt like my mission statement. I’m so weird, but I love it.