It is taking me longer than usual, to recover from this recent travel. Perhaps it is because I have not yet flung myself entirely into my work, as we now enter the winter holiday season. Well, there is the possibility of other reasons. Allow me to examine them in broken words and incoherent sentences.
I can’t quite recall the last time, I made physical note of my thoughts – jotting them down, writing without scribbling out, typing without jabbing at ‘delete’. Always so concerned with it’s outward appearance, it’s been a while since I last felt truly connected to my stories. They just felt exactly like what they were – stories. But not my stories. So little of what they held, reflected any part of my being. Sure, it embodied lots of my inner cynicism (which is always dying to get out), and in some parts, were bits and bobs of incessant desires and concerns. I wrote around in circles, and metaphors, analogies which found it’s form in animals, weeds, the wind…?
The days grew wild, and I grew very weary. With such a convulsion to write, I was always so deterred by how it would seem. Even to myself, especially to myself. I’ve never thought of myself as a perfectionist, but there are tiny specks of life which I would be dreadfully particular over.
This morning, I am choosing to remember why it is that I choose to write. At this moment, it is for clarity, for reflection, for strength.