Monday, May 9, 2011
It used to be on my other blog that I wouldn’t post unless my words were profound at least in my own mind. I would be standing in the shower and KNOW what I needed to write and sure enough it would work. And angst provides a sound palette for creativity. I’ve been hiding. I’ve justified it because my computer is still fried and all my writing is stuck on the charred remains. I don’t know how to access it and yet I felt inspired AGAIN that I need to finish editing my novel. It’s as if the Lord is helping me see how valuable my words are by me not being able to relish them. I miss my other stories too. I miss Curly. I miss the writer I was before that tick infested editor disemboweled my hope. I was only a baby writer then, but I believed I could fly. Now I am teenage slacker writer, afraid of being who I was born to be; rebellious, lazy and self-absorbed.
If I was to be published tomorrow, would anything be different? It’s in the scratching out the world with a toothpick that I see what I’m made of. Would I suddenly believe in myself any more or would I just be the same pubescent wordsmith with now aged gnarled fingers clutching my pen that has littered words that people actually respect? I don’t think it matters. I love my words. I love what I need to say. It’s taken me a long time to be able to say that. I’ve decided the worst thing I can do as a writer is to sit on the sidelines of my own life. Not writing is akin to not breathing and yet I’ve been holding my breath until I’ve turned blue too many times.
I am back to writing every day. I will just have to write late at night commandeering T’s work laptop. J, THANK YOU. Seriously, you don’t know how much it means to me.
I am rollerblading now; a six year old has nothing on me. I practice on my driveway spinning in circles my tongue probably sticking out between my teeth as I concentrate. I also received a little trampoline for Mother’s Day and it’s hard to feel blue when one is jumping.