I’ve been focusing on me, and the basics.
I’ve taken months “off” of writing, just for myself. I’m writing, but not a whole lot. I write when the urge hits and now I don’t beat myself up when other things are calling. Resting, reading, being with friends and family, even just a beer and staring out the window to think—these things are OK, too.
Writing had become a chore.
There was a time when I said, “I need a break.” Writing had become more about doing the thing than needing it to thrive.
But. Now. I have a new project. It’s called “HOUSES.”" I’m writing in prose poetry form about the places I’ve lived and what went on when I was there. All the feels, the people, the feels about the people, the food that was shared and the noises heard and the way water dripped or flowed from the tap. Details make up the small moments, make up the large moments, make up the memories. We live in impressions. So I’m writing about my impressions of the places I’ve lived.
Somehow, it feels important. But I’m not bound to it. I’m writing at my own pace.
That’s something they don’t teach you in college—or anytime before—that wanting it, needing it, doesn’t always flow like a faucet. Sometimes you’ll feel like you NEED that water and other times, meh, you find substitutes. And sometimes that’s good. But if I’m right, I think:
a writer, an artist will always, inevitably come back to it.
Like it’s part of our blood. We DO need it to survive.
Dramatic? Maybe. It’s an impetus. A deeper undercurrent, a drive.
Peace, love and continuing the good fight.
photo credit: Molly McGeeny, @mj.geeny