Trying to Find True North

I didn’t know when I wanted to be a writer. Waking up in the morning, shrugging off the covers, and putting on my writer’s cape never happened. My destiny of being a writer swimming in a river of words didn’t happen.

What did happen was being a “quirky” kid and spending a majority of my childhood by myself.

What do I mean by “quirky?” This would be OCD in the extreme. Hit me as a fourth grader. Since Asperger’s runs in our family, there is a high likelihood as that was my challenge. Sometimes still is when I find myself in social situations like a deer in the headlights. But I mask well.

I was dealing with two classmates dying in two years. I barely slept, worried I would be carried off in my sleep and any little variance in my routine would cause it. So I turned to stories. They could calm me down and help me relate.

Later, when I went to college, I learned what “triggers” were and how they would affect me. But as a child, I’m sure my parents were just as confused as I felt.

So books became my friend and writing came next, usually based on characters in a book. My earliest I remember — I’m sure there were a few more before this — was a origin story of Bombur from The Hobbit. I was in a class for gifted children and that was our name the UHA — United Hobbit Association. I spent so much time on them it jeopardized the rest of my classes.

By the time I turned thirteen, I learned how to internalize the turmoil I felt as I transitioned to our high school. I was still an Aspie, but I kept it to myself. I still wrote, trying to find my true north.

College came. Wrote for the classes. Went on adventures.

Then life hit. Children. Slowed down. Way. Down. Single parent and a plethora of part time jobs.

Took classes like the Writer’s Digest and Artist’s Way so I wouldn’t rust.

Then, a leap of faith. Wanted to reach out creatively. If I didn’t do it, how could I tell my daughters they could do what they wanted?

I found myself in a parking lot. Thought it was going to be a film shoot, but there was no one there. Punked.

I knew it…until I saw a lone figure walking up to me. Turned out, everyone was at dinner. Started writing with my boyfriend and didn’t stop. Made films. Got married. Loved it. Wrote when I could and I did independent shorts and films. Until. Life intercepted…again.

Father died. Mom’s caretaker. Owned businesses instead of working for them so I could take care of her. Still pulled my characters out and dusted them off, but not as often. Mom’s passed. Businesses closed. Darkness fell.

As in all things, there are rhythms in our lives. They aren’t visible usually, unless you slow down. Like floundering in a river. Swim back to shore where you can take a rest and stop fighting the current. Figure out where you are.

Will you take the wooded trail or back in the water? Once you find your direction, you,then, have choices. But the rhythm you can’t see, not until you step away. You can’t see the current while your treading water.

So break time is over, my time on the shore has been enlightening and now I pull out my trusty compass — worn with age and experience. I learned there will be times in the future when I will need to camp on shore again. To feel the need to settle and nestle in my sleeping bag before I go forward again. Until then, I will write, and dream, and write some more.