Posts about the writing life and the love of story
Prologue: I wrote this for a reading at my writer’s group to discuss where I am as a writer. WARNING: It contains some swearing and crazy-ass thinking. I’m still grieving the loss of Luke. And it appears any time you suffer one loss, it brings up feelings from all the other losses in your life….
How does one get unstuck? You know, that kind of stuck where you can’t seem to carve out enough time (or what you believe is enough time) to do a decent job at something so you do nothing.
Every time I draw myself back into where I am, what I’m doing, and who I am right now, I feel more alive. And I’m pretty sure a person functions better when they are awake and aware than when they are tossing in their sleep.
I’ve been trying to remember what it was like to be a kid — to remember what I played at and imagined and loved. I want to see if the things I started out loving provide clues to how to bring those playful feelings (free, light, uninhibited, unworried about outcome, adaptable, unrestricted) back into my way too serious life.
I realized that what frightened Luke on the trail was not what he saw. It was what was out of site and unknown. It’s the same for me. The broader I can make my view of the world, the less there is to fear.
A week ago, I took a half a Friday off and rode my bike home from work. The weather was perfect – mid 70s, windy but not too bad. I hoped to bike off months of stress and frustration, clear my head and reenergize myself for my manuscript revision work ahead. An awful load of expectations for a bike to carry.
