Being Productive

November 16, 2009

I realized this few days ago. I realized that I am not a writer if I write. I realized that I am not a painter if I paint, nor am I a designer if I design. I am who I am, and I do things. I’ve been working on my fairy story for last few months and it brought quite a havoc into my life. What does it mean that I want to write the story? What does it mean that ideas come to me, that I hear a sentence and see a story, a complete story, from end to finish? What does it mean? I love to read, I read nearly all the time, what does it mean? Should I be a writer now? Should I not design anymore, and focus on this instead? Exciting as the idea seemed to be, I was still confused, unsettled. I didn’t know whom I should be next. I didn’t know how to reorganize my life to accommodate this new direction so I froze, I stopped in between, and did nothing. I pondered this the other day, the fact that I don’t write, even though I want to. The fact that I design very little lately, even though I like doing it. And it occurred to me: I don’t need to “become” a writer. I don’t need to “be” a designer. I don’t need to be this or that, I don’t need to choose between being this or that, because I am who I am already. I can write a great novel, I realized, and it will not change who I am. I can paint and design, draw and illustrate, and it doesn’t change who I am. I am who I am already and who I am is unlimited, boundless. There is space for writing, space for designing, space for drawing and painting, space for everything, inside of me being myself, because there is no limit to me. I do not need to organize my life around one thing, one idea. I don’t need to limit myself to one way of expressing who I am. I don’t need to limit myself at all, because who I am is limitless. No matter what I do, I am who I am. No matter what I do, who I am doesn’t change. I went back home and sat down to work on my story. The confusion was gone, the constriction disappeared. I was free to spin my fancies and threw them out, send them into the world. the story opened and grew, free to develop anyway it wished, because it wasn’t me anymore. I was not the story. I was only myself.

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