Vision, brand and market what exactly?

I woke up this morning with the idea that my "one thing" is me. It isn't writing, acting, comedy, sports, counseling, spirituality, dream analysis, teaching or any other path I can think of. It is me.

Not too long ago, while I was struggling with motivation to write, a friend suggested I read Gary Keller's book, The One Thing. Not long before that, I read a book, title and author forgotten, about how the rich live and think versus those of us with "poor" thinking. Not long before that I read Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live by Martha N. Beck. (I did like Beck's book). Before that I'm sure I read something else meant to move me from a state of what feels like helpless indecision to a state with clear vision and goals and activity and manifestation and everlasting joy, including a healthy income.

The One Thing was meant to clear up the clutter and make room for me to focus! The problem is...I don't have ONE THING. Okay, so that's not what Keller means, right? He doesn't mean that we don't have multiple interests and endeavors. But he does suggest that there is ONE that we can identify and give the most of our time to.

For me, frustration ensued after reading that book, because no matter my best intentions, I cannot. I thought I could if I just fell in love with the ONE THING enough. What am I the most passionate about? What can I get so lost in (an activity) that all of time flies by? These are the questions that all the books I have read ask. And let me say, I can't think of one activity where that is the case for me. What I'm left with is a sense of frustration and despair and I think maybe I don't have any real passion. I see people with that kind of passion, many of whom were born with it. And I can't tell you how jealous it makes me.

So, then it becomes about finding what is blocking me from accessing that passion that I know is there, somewhere. Right? So far, working The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, has come the closest to unearthing hidden interests, but nevertheless I remain as distracted by the multitude of paths I "could" take and how much time and energy becoming successful in any ONE would take.

Even as I write this blog post, I'm growing weary of following this train of thought, because there are fighting thoughts working their way in and my attention span is short, often compared to the lifespan of a flea.

What I would like, more than anything, is to be let off the hook for being able to clearly see a vision for myself, who and what I want to be and what it is I want to do, before I can brand, market and manifest, ie. thrive. What I am saying here is that the only ONE thing I am the most passionate about is me. It's the ONE thing I've invested the most time in through countless inventories of my assets and liabilities, self-exploration through journaling and talking to trust-worthy friends. It is the ONE thing that is present whether I'm typing away on my computer or engaged in a lively conversation with friends.

I'm mildly ashamed to admit that my recent adventures have been about discovering more of what it's like to be me, much like in mediation where it's about observing that which I identify as "me" while tapping into the power that is not just my personality. I'm not sure how my uncertainty and non-goal oriented life will help others, but it is becoming apparent that an element that drives me is sharing my journey (overused word) with anyone who will listen. So please, share back with me, for as my psychologist friend, Dr. Ingrid Mathieu, posted as her word-of-the-day on her Facebook page this morning: Mirror. (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ingrid-Mathieu-PhD/194198467283685)

For those of you who stumble upon this blog and resonate with anything I write, please leave a comment.


We are in this together, as a mirror.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Everything feels hard; mind is in a whirlwind

Not sure why, but as of Saturday afternoon, I started losing momentum. I had great drive through Friday and, as it turns out, hit a wall on Saturday. It doesn't appear obvious, the reason, so I'm trying to write it out...to write through.

Honestly, I don't want to write. Well, I do, but I'd like to feel motivated, instead of the awful sleepy-hollow brain fog I have going on. Did I eat too many sweets, too much sugar? Not any more than usual. I'm looking at my cycle. I am hitting Day 7 pre-period. TMI? Nonetheless, it's a factor I have to consider. Day 7 can certainly lead to this type of decline in being able to muster strong enough willpower to overcome the lack of motivation to do anything. 

Thank GOD I am meeting with a friend at 2:00 pm today. That plan managed to get me out of the house. Oh, the house that isn't mine, even. Right. Circumstances are that I'm still bouncing around from place to place. No. I am not a victim to this displacement. I chose to move out of my apartment last September (nearly a year ago). Also, there are FOR RENT signs all over Los Angeles. I could seek, find, apply for an apartment thereby having a place to call my own-- if I was so motivated. It appears I am not.  

Sometimes I wonder if this destabilizing, non-desire to create, exercise, research jobs for earning is coming from not having my own place. I don't have money to, plainly said: Fuck off with. I don't. I'm down to $80.00 or so dollars in my checking account, and I just pulled some from savings to pay my past-due health insurance premium for the month. Then there's that buggerly little parking ticket for not remembering Tuesday is street cleaning day. 

My mind keeps telling me, "You committed to writing every day for thirty days. Remember, Rachel? You were going to bust through that wall of yours that is blocking you from succeeding in the 'thing' you want to succeed in. Remember? So, as a tool, you committed to doing the writing. For a while that sure went well. What was it? A week and a half? And now? GET TO IT!" 

"I tried," I say to my mind and then to willpower, "Please, do something. Don't just sit there looking at me like that." After all, this morning I made the effort to sit down at my computer and open the script I've been working on. And nothing happened, as if forces were working against something happening. Instead, I started thinking: Wow. What am I doing this for? Should I be working on my novel? Should I self-publish? Shouldn't I keep trying to send out queries to agents? There's no way I would have the energy it would take to self-publish. And then there's the cost. I'm sure it costs something-- way more than the $80 I have. And I surely couldn't use my 401K money. Surely not.

I was struck with how exhausted I felt. How insanely sleepy I was becoming.

But the thoughts kept pouring out, like from a broken spicket: I would need to pay someone to edit it. Another cost I cannot afford. I mean, I should be sending more queries. How many did I sent out last week? One? And she just wrote me back this morning with the usual, "We don't think this project is right for us," so that is a "No." 

I did receive emails from two women regarding self-publishing, who have been published. I need to follow up with them. The fact that they are both corresponding with me feels like some support from the universe.

I just don't see myself as one of those, I'll do what I have to at all cost to make something happen, kind of person. I'm not. The phrase "surrender to win" is so ingrained in me. I figure, Why fight it? I don't have that strong sense that I know what I'm doing or where I'm supposed to go. What if I'm not such a hot writer with not such a hot novel/story to tell? What if, after all, people won't enjoy reading it. What if the universe wants my attention somewhere else...you know, like getting a job? 

Or, what if it's not meant to be a novel and instead needs to be rewritten as a screenplay? Should I get busy working on that, in place of this other script that I've been working on, more for my friend than for me? So, is that why I can't seem to consistently motivate myself to turn back to page 56 of Shotguns and Halter Tops and get those darn-it-all twenty-something's set up in Miami (the current scene). 

I had such momentum on Friday, that I literally thought to myself, "What if I stayed in ALL weekend and just wrote and wrote and worked to finish this thing?" I thought that. And I did get to stay in mostly all weekend. My friends had other plans. I had two days of alone time, which is almost unheard of for me and usually something I avoid. I thought that is what I wanted, but when it was here and went on for two days, I was stunned thinking, there's no way. Not for me. I'm bored out of my mind. 

I lost the desire to go exercise, because it's just another activity to do by myself. Not in the mood! I'm bored with everything before me, because who does it involve? Me and my brain. My lovely brain that is swimming with IDEAS, so much that it is overloaded with them, and a willpower that has completely shut off. It is a valve that has been closed. 

I am supposed to make something happen! I am supposed to get moving! My circumstances are SCREAMING at me to not let this scary no money, no home, no-productivity-to-no-success thing happen. And my willpower says, I'm out! 

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Anniversary July 19th

I saw your picture on the internet.

I looked you up, to see that you hadn't passed away.

I was surprised you let them write about you.

It's like a "Fuck you" in your own way

I'm angry.

The ending just happened. It came in the night and put walls around you, leaving the smallest crack where I could talk to you, me thinking we still had a chance. But then you sealed that off, too.

And you expected me to be okay with it. To not care that I was alone again, without my best friend, my universal love. You wanted me to go on and pretend like you had always been just a friend.

Just someone who shared the same humor.

To get out, you made me wrong, dangerous even. You made me your mother. Your evil mother.

I became the woman who was hurting you. Me and my vulnerabilities glaring in your face, your closed off heart, your own.

So, it was our destiny. The whole of it. The meeting and the now. The complete separation. We were each other's doorway to separate hallways.

Happy Anniversary, T.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Found this from 2008

I am scared to death that I am not good at anything in particular, but okay at many insignificant things.  It breaks my heart if I think about it hard enough.  Which I avoid until I feel lonely and am supposed to figure out the thing that makes me forget I am lonely.  Can talking to people be a passion?  Do passions have to be lonely propositions?  My God, I am so embarrassed to be writing at all.  I am embarrassed to think I have anything at all that someone else would like to read.  I am embarrassed that I am not articulate enough.  The truth about my inferiority with working word puzzles will surface, and I will be exposed.  

I could start crying this very instant.  I am going to make writing my new boyfriend.  Maybe writing will become a long-term boyfriend.  Maybe I will marry my writing once and for all.  If I dedicated as much time to my writing as I did to my running, perhaps I wouldn’t be so insecure about it.  And although I talk a lot, I find that I have little imagination of what to say on paper that isn’t my incessant spinning of words in my head about myself.  And I cannot think that that might be interesting to another person.  Of course, I have been asked to start a podcast.  I keep saying I need to do that.  I keep thinking I will.

I could write about how to avoid doing tasks on lists.  I could talk about Dan.  Or can I?  I am just cleaning out my brain.  I am exporting all the irrelevant information that is blocking the ingenious ideas I have that everyone wants to read about.  What about the chocolate cravings?  I have been having one of those everyday since October.  Is it the Mars retrograde that is giving me this intense craving for chocolate?  I don’t know.  Maybe I am not the writing channel for God that I daydream of being.  The one where the story is already there, and I just need to sit down and let it flow forth.  

I can ramble, but who can’t?  Certainly, we hear enough of it.  I don’t know enough about the elections to talk politics.  I have to go to bed now.  I am too tired.  Maybe I can write in the morning.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2008. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Never?

Each moment is one more moment where you are formless, soundless, heartless.

In the morning, I prepare my coffee and sit down to write without waiting for you to wake. I don't look for your naked body to shuffle its way to the bathroom and then to the kitchen to drink your Gelatin drink.

I don't sit and watch you scribble away in your journal, wondering what insight or fear you will want to tell me about later.

As I head off to Graffiti to write, I don't coordinate my time with you -- us deciding when to go to Whole Foods for lunch and to pick up flank steak and cauliflower for dinner.

As the sun sets, we are not making our way to the ocean for a quick dip, so the cool, salt water can work its magic on our sore muscles and inflamed joints.

I've stopped working crossword puzzles at any time of the day.

You are not texting me. I am not calling you. It's like we never existed.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Spring in the 4th Grade

One day, when I was in fourth grade, I remember getting off the bus a house down from my Mom's on Cedar Lane. It was Spring, probably late March, as it felt warm enough for short sleeves and Easter around the corner.

There's that relief of stepping off the large animal that is the school bus, with it's yellow painted metal and tires so big they will crush you just by getting too close. There's the relief, too, of being free of the judgement and projected fears of youthful peers, that social study that as a human we can never get away from but have no real armor of protection against as a child.

Once the bus pulled away, me alone to make my way one acre in distance, passed the neighbor, Arlene's house, I looked up to the sky. She had a big oak tree with branches that reached the edge of her yard to where I was standing in the partly worn grass and dirt at the side of the road. The sun was a midday sun and it's rays sparkled through the greening leaves of that tree creating snowflake flashes of light into my eyes.

I kept my head up towards the gnarled arms of the canopy of shade and light above me. I walked slowly, taking in the feeling of God that was present to me that day. It was a pocket of space and time that held peace for me, where the anxieties of the full day of being a 9 year old were released. I felt free.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.