My gods, was I writing as recently as November? Surely I was a liar, surely I picked up the manuscript and put it down again as quickly as I enthused about writing. Impossible to invoke any sense-memory of writing, happening so close in time as November.
Happy new year. So I'm late: I still do wish anyone left reading here, or who accidentally stumbles in, a good 2019.
This blog has been Crickets-ville for a long time now. This isn't so much because life is so terrible as it is just *life*. Since some point in December (when someone I love very much went back on anti-depressants), things have been going well. Work is good, the house is not falling down, I am regularly paying bills. I even got together with friends recently. Progress.
Of course, I have also already attended the funeral of someone I loved (more than she could possibly have realized) this year. Family gathered, warmed, dissipated. Ebb and flow.
Life.
It's got a lot of death in it.
Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to have a lot of creation in it of late, and the tragic part of that is I don't even stop to care.
Is it possible I was writing less than three months ago ... ?
Is it possible I will write again?
3 comments:
I suspect writing is a part of your nature. I would bet you'll get back to it.
Thank you for a great kindness.
I'm letting myself believe that "writing" can mean more than "creating and endlessly polishing fiction with a goal to publish novels" but there was indeed some exileration in that when it *was* my goal. Certainly I do still write aplenty, but nothing really for a long time with any eye to more than one reader at a time ...
You'll write again. It's who you are. The writing just may not take a foreseeable form or cover foreseeable subject matter. Be open to those possibilities. (I saw this as someone who's utterly swamped right now. How did I so recently have time for book research, blog posts, and poems? How can I get back to that? So I hear ya.)
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