The piece I am working on and have been picking at for about two weeks now is still in scribble, I’m in love with this character stage so I don’t want to focus too much on how much I love it but there is a little sprig of something in my mind about it.
This is writing. You can see it and know it needs something – in my case, I want a fantastical yet oh so ordinary element like Tom Robbins’s spoon and can o’ beans; but figuring what that something is, well that’s difficult. I don’t want it forced because it will just end up being useless drivel, but it’s just right there at the edge of fingertips.
How much of life is like that? Not just writing life, but actual breathing and taking space in the world Life. Right now, post degree and baby I’m trying to figure out what I am doing with myself on a professional level. It’s right there, at my fingertips, what I’m trying to figure out but actually grasping at it? Well it, whatever it is, just keeps squirming away.
In writing, like in life, I think we may force too much, push too much for that perfection that may not be our own sense or definition of perfection and before you know it, time has passed you by and yet … And yet. It is striking that balance between acknowledging your responsibilities to others (I have a million kids) and my responsibility to myself and to ensure my own happiness. It’s striking a balance between sacrifice and self preservation.
The path of development – for myself and my writing. It’s a funny thing.