Year nine rewritten, another section of my novel awaits; year ten when grumbling discontent pecks at the ritualistic nature of my anorexic, adolescent existence. I read it over noting the schism between the words on the page and the words I’d like on the page.
I’d love the writing to convey the essence of my experience, clear, varied, unique and unforgettable. I remind myself of the beauty of the creative process. Sometimes it’s frustrating. On those days I sit here, looking out at the rainbows cast by a crystal hanging on the porch and trying to get the words to flow.
Sometimes the words pour out of me, sometimes they don’t. There’s a lot more to the craft of writing than I had ever expected. Everyday I learn something new. As I find my way, I realise I’m reaching into the realm of the infinite.
Writing is like golf, deceptively easy on the surface.
Last week INS
ED me. Finishing ‘The House of Leaves,’ I experienced first hand the quirkiness of this non-linear plot. The book had an added dimension, a visual element.
In the middle of the ‘O’ we imagined and followed the characters lives as they traipsed through the chaos that constituted their reality. The bold black confines of the ‘O’ held us fast but our reality enticed us beyond it.
Last week I retired from my professional career. Like all change it left me torn, wonder and expectation tussled with emptiness and dare I say it, fear. For so long the role of physiotherapist clothed me. It gave me something, some one to be.
I see myself a s a story teller, my head full of quirky tales amassed over the decades. I want to release them and free myself, creating space for the new to enter. So having written Schicksal, I felt pretty chuffed. Little did I know I stood on the top of the slippery slope.
I had dreams; big ones, bold, at times unrealistic but clear, or so I thought. Easy. I just wanted to be an internationally acclaimed author. Now what’s wrong with that? Dream Big, that’s what all those feel good, new age sites advise, isn’t it?
gaining inspiration from the world.
On the ground
in random places
I find a pencil, perfect.
Then an other.
I have a book in my brain.
The aura is misty and the idea vague.
It rumbles around inside me, bumping into bits of me,
Sometimes my hear flutters, sometimes my stomach churns.
In my perfect fairy tale world, I think of life flowing smoothly on. Writing the enigma it is clearly doesn’t follow the rules. Words either take on a life of their own or stubbornly refuse to cooperate like a fledgling adolescent. Sitting in front of my virginal word document, there is no black to be seen.
The outcome moves further from me as I vow to plough on. Wringing words out of my inner space, I survey the scene, a mass of disjointed thoughts and concepts that refuse all attempts at cohesion. Is it even salvageable? With dismay I give it away for a bit. Tomorrow will be better.