Overcoming Fears.

I have notebooks filled with stories, chapters of different books, and prose poetry. Nearly twenty years’ worth, in fact. When I received my first fiction chapters concerning the spiritual development of two young men at the beginning of the British Bronze age, I was happily transcribing them when we moved back to Ireland to do energy work.

One morning, I awoke in my bedroom, in Dunmore East, telling myself a story. I was still half asleep, but the story was about a young girl in America, in the late 1800s, who witnessed the murder of her mother at the hands of her drunken father. I could see it all clearly.

Dunmore East. (We lived in the pale blue house on the back row of houses)

When I woke up properly, I realised I should record it.

At other times of the day, or night, I received stories with similar themes: those of sacrifice and love. One of them I received while I was on a flight to Egypt and had to whip out my notebook to transcribe the words in my head. That particular one was about the love of a father towards his estranged son.

All of those stories seemed to be about the different faces of love, not the romantic love we all seem to be so obsessed with these days. One was about the love of a priest towards a young parishioner; another was about the care given by a native Australian woman to a young Irish immigrant who is starving: yet another was about a domestic violence victim who eventually finds her power and is able to confront her abuser.  

At the time, I did not know what I was supposed to do with these stores, but now I see they were seeds; seeds I would plant one day and publish as either books or short stories. Unfortunately, I have so many of these seeds that I would need a large field to plant them in!

I knew I was supposed to write books. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a child. Way back when I was a teenager, I wrote a story about a soul in the spirit world who, on looking down at the state of the earth and her people, decided she would incarnate there to help them move forward.

The soul was born into the body of a young Native American woman… and that was as far as I got. I had no idea what she was supposed to do once she got here. So, I wrote the ending. She accomplished her tasks and returned to the world of Spirit. The middle of that story, the part that mattered most, just would not come. It was a vast, empty nothingness. As soon as she was born, she disappeared, until she died.

Which is pretty much what has happened in my life. Except that I haven’t died yet. Now, at nearly sixty years of age, I am finally living the middle of the story. It turned out that the story was my own life, apart from the First Nations part. I wasn’t born into that culture. Instead, I was born with an Irish woman’s body, (which is something I have always struggled with). In my mind, I was Native American. And a boy! (That belief did not leave me until I was in my late teens). I spent most of my time running around the woods in Graiguenamanagh (Co. Kilkenny) learning to stalk wild animals (of which there were none, so I wasn’t very successful) and learning to fish (I was good at that).

Graiguenamanagh (From Pinterest)

But there was a reason for being born female, as it turned out. I work with the feminine consciousness of earth, otherwise known as Gaia. I had to be a woman to understand how women have been treated, and therefore, how the earth has been treated: as a commodity, a slave, or a stepping stone to power. It was important that I experience powerlessness, abuse and domestic violence so I could learn how to overcome them. Which I have done pretty well, although I’m not sure if I can heal all of the wounds in the time I have left. But who knows?

One of the problems I still have is rebelliousness. I had all these stories, but no understanding of what to do with them, or how to write them properly. Because they were channelled, I knew that the energy of the story was important and therefore I believed I could not change them. I was afraid to destroy the intention behind them, even though I didn’t really understand what the intention was. I just knew it was important. That is where my rebelliousness got in the way; and my basic mistrust of structure and rules. I had to do it my way.

However, doing it this way made me flounder. I had no foundation of knowledge behind me with which to write the books properly. That didn’t stop me, though. I began writing the book, (I thought at that time it was going to be one, not three!). I fleshed out the bones I’d received, but because I did not quite understand writing processes, I rewrote the beginning chapters a million times. I just kept adding the new chapters as they came in, regardless of whether or not they fit, or if they led the story forward.

I had it nearly finished; I thought when I moved from Luxor to Hurghada. There, I found art classes in a cat café called the Purrfect Cuppa (There are a gazillion stray cats in Hurghada, some of which they feed and take care of). One of the art group members turned out to be an editor, and a writer, herself, so she became my editor. I was so sure the book was complete, finally, after nearly ten years of writing it, but she dropped a bombshell. It still needed work!

https://www.facebook.com/PurrfectCuppaHurghadahttps://www.facebook.com/PurrfectCuppaHurghada

How? I had been doing this for years. I had read books on writing and polished it as much as I could. I’d received positive feedback from previous potential editors. And that, of course, was the problem. I had sent that first chapter to several editors, hoping to find one I could afford. They had all said very positive things. Which, I soon realised, they would. They were hardly likely to say something negative, were they?

My ego had taken a bruising, but I also had no idea how I was supposed to do more with it. But she helped, and I did.

I came back to England for two weeks (I’m still here, nearly three years later), and ‘Upstairs’ (my guides) told me to publish it. So, I had the cover art done and published it on Amazon. Some of my friends loved it, and most of my family didn’t get it (some of the more spiritually minded did and loved it too), but I didn’t push the marketing. By now, I was writing the sequel. And the story was taking a different, darker turn. (Part of the reason I didn’t market it was because I was writing a sequel. I thought I would wait until that was published to promote them both together).

In the meantime, I was saving money. I knew it was for a reason but didn’t know what that reason was. Until I saw an advert for a fiction writing course at Oxford University. As soon as I checked out the course, I immediately applied. I knew in my stomach that this was what I needed to do. And I was terrified. I was about to find out whether I could actually write, or whether I was completely fooling myself.

On starting the course, my immediate fear was of other people reading my work. I was terrified of their judgement. With channelled writing, I could hide behind it. It wasn’t mine, after all. It came from someplace else. I am only the scribe. Having to write from my own head meant I was facing the fact that I might not be a writer at all. I did have legitimate reasons for the fear. From the age of fourteen, when I moved back to Ireland, having spent two years in Southern Spain, I kept journals. These were mainly filled with my obsession over a boy I liked, and were all very innocent. ‘I saw him today,’ or more interestingly, ‘I didn’t see him today.’ You know how it goes.

Torremolinos. That second-hand bookshop was a lifeline!

Instead of living with my mother, as I had been doing in Spain, I now lived with my father, along with five other siblings and a stepmother, who didn’t like me very much. (Later, we had a much better relationship). My diaries became a source of angst to her. She would find them in my room and report back to my father who would read them and I would be in trouble. I never could understand why. Was love so terrible? I wondered. So jealous and vindictive?

But, it never occurred to me to stop writing. I just became cleverer at hiding my diaries. Although, not clever enough. I wrote them in Spanish. I wrote them in Elvish (I was reading Lords of the Rings), I wrote them in code, with symbols, but to no avail. I was in trouble, no matter what. (I still have those diaries. I had to steal them back!).

So here I was, an adult about to embark on a writing course that would expose those tender, hidden places, and I was scared.  But instead of my fears being realised, I grew. I was not a bad writer after all. In fact, I had gotten some pretty great feedback!

I rewrote the first chapter of the first book. Nearly completely! And now I loved it! I discovered I could still keep the basic message of the channelled fiction whilst making it much, much better. Much more readable.

And whilst writing the sequel, which I was doing simultaneously, I made a few more discoveries. Now, I was no longer receiving entire chapters, but instead, I was being given the beginning of one. I always write the initial draft in pen, because the words and ideas come too fast to use a keyboard, and when I began transferring what I had received onto my computer, the beginning of a chapter became six or seven complete chapters. Not only that, but they introduced information I could never have thought of myself. Information that gave both background and forward movement.

It was as though packages of information were being downloaded into my memory banks, which came out when I wrote.

This was a game-changer! I now discovered I had more control than I previously imagined. And yet, the basic story was still intact. The new information simply deepened it. I was still relying on ‘Upstairs’ to give me this info, but it was in a different way and, slowly, I was learning to trust. It was as though Upstairs were using the course I was doing in Oxford to deepen my own knowledge and to increase and improve what they were giving me. I was learning through two sources at once.

Then I did another course with Oxford: Creative Writing for beginners.

That changed things again. But I’ll leave that for next week. In the meantime, happy writing… and reading.

Soul Writing.An introduction.

Ann Murphy

2 thoughts on “Overcoming Fears.”

  1. Hi Anne

    I just love reading your words. You’ve come a long way… How the past experiences seem to shape our future for the good and the ‘bad’ . I’m just sitting waiting.. About 10 years ago whilst working on the psychic lines, a medium took over ‘my reading’to her, she was paying to talk to me! She told me that my spirit guide was channeling information through her that I would write a book. I explained I’d already written one about cats a childrens book ‘NO not THAT one came the terse response. It will come to you… I didn’t believe a word of it, especially when she pointed out that ‘Lionel’ my guide could describe my physical appearance, she then proceeded to explain how Lionel calls me crooked bones… I’m not best pleased especially with Lionel as a guide, disappointed his name wasn’t Gabriel, Michael or even Metatron, but after he described even more accurate details I started to feel uncomfortable with the conversation, how on earth could I compete with that for a reading? Fortunately the medium had said all she wanted to say and rang off. I do ask Lionel occasionally what it is I’m supposed to be writing about. He was extremely helpful to me during David’s stroke. I had something to hang onto, even though the family was taken to a side room and told to expect the worse and believed he wouldn’t survive the night.. I was not part of that negative trauma, I was calm and centred, not anymore, delayed reaction PTSD I won’t let him out of my sight! He continues to thrive physically, despite major heart pathology, his psychological state of mind is out of synch but his sub conscious remains in top form, he’s fine as long as he doesn’t put his brain into gear lol!

    So here I am at 66 stepping down from 5 years of rolling my sleeves up and creating a garden and art in an almost frenzy, having to keep myself busy, to achieve something at the end of every day…perhaps running away from the inevitable looking inward..because if I stop? Fears hit me..

    I am a terrible traveller. Have never flown, never intend to, hate trains, car journeys( being driven am ok driving myself) it’s speed I have issues with. I’m ok with new places it’s the journey I have problems with. I think that all of this comes from early childhood when I spent 2 years encased in a plaster cast up to my chest. Plaster dungarees trying to keep my displasic hips in their sockets. My consultant reckons that was never achieved and the muscular tissue grew round the joints and kept them in place until I was almost 50 when it was discovered the socket had worn flat and new joint required. So my pelvis is out of kilter and another hip replacement failed to straighten me up. So here I am wheelchair bound – no pain, loving my gardening and digging holes, I’ve single handedly dug up 2 huge lawns, created a pond and planted a garden that was void of flowers. The front garden on this housing association estate is full of roses and lavenders and my aim of having it spill onto the footpath to draw the folk passing to it, will be achieved by its perfume if nothing else…

    As I write this, thoughts of how we have all been denied the universal energy of love, through lock downs, denial of touch. I want to be able to help folk get in ‘touch’ with that energy.. I’m a healer, a pagan and one who is passionate about Gaia. If folk have been denied the loving touch and energy, how on earth can they channel it and re learn how to put time and effort into our beloved Earth that so desperately needs healing. Ah.. I need to try and be still in order to tap into channelling. I’m a Pisces we both are, some of my best thoughts come to me in the shower, or when I’m focused on my creativity, but words are fleeting- it feels like a child is tapping me on the shoulder, but when I turn round they’ve vanished into thin air, the ‘message, thought,idea never materialises. I feel an object of their mischief.. I’m not the most patient of people but feel 10 years after that reading, was Lionel just playing games with me? An object of a spirit guide prank perhaps? Who knows but time marches on and I’m the wrong side of 60 let’s hope life begins soon and we’ll before my 70th Birthday..

    Your writing is amazing, so much truth and heartfelt sharing. Thank you😘😘😘

    Love and light Julie

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    1. Hi Julie, I’ve been given the same info many times. One day you will write such and such, etc. etc. Sometimes I think it comes down to readiness, which, of course, in your case, Lionel will see. (Your own sense of ‘OK, I’m ready now. Let’s go’, not the spiritual readiness)
      As you already know, writing takes a huge chunk of time and commitment so if you already have many commitments they can eat into the work.
      But it sounds like you are being so wonderfully creative in other ways and your garden sounds amazing! I like planting things too. Perhaps it comes from that nurturing place we have inside us, that need to take care of things, and people.
      But, in terms of the book you were told you would write, it might be worth connecting to Lionel and saying: ‘I’m ready now.’
      Your reaction to your guide’s name made me laugh. I had exactly the same response when I was given the name of ‘The Gaia Method’. How prosaic, I thought, not really getting what they meant. If they were giving me a healing system I would have expected a far more exotic name. Of course, now I understand what the name means. And, as usual, they were right.

      So, after all you’ve done in the past few years, perhaps it is time to have a chat with Lionel, put pen to paper, and play. 😀
      Lots of love.
      Ann

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