half empty glass
Halfway point of the NaBloShutTheFuckUpMo. Ugh. I feel that a Real Writer should rise up out of me at this point — the Becky-skin zips away to reveal a betweeded typewriting virtuoso, hornrims and pipe clamped onto the face, while art — finally, art — starts appearing on this page.
Sorry to disappoint you. All month, writing has felt very much like shaking a tree, hard, and getting fluff and dust and old nests and yuck. All the time wondering why the hell I’m shaking a tree. What’d the tree do to me?
I get this “I’m a hack!” feeling sometimes when I’m immersed in improv and it just doesn’t come — I just can’t make shit up. Or I’m sewing a quilt top and lorrrrrd, all of a sudden the patterns and colors start to clash clash clash.
Usually the whole darkest-before-the-dawn thing takes effect at this point. This frustrating, self-doubting mental quagmire often precedes a surge in progress and clarity.
But writing. Only recently have I thought of myself as [maybe kindof perhaps] a writer. So I don’t know and I don’t trust the process. Am I going to be able to hork up this mental hairball? [writer!!]
My father very much wanted me to be a writer, and that might very well be why I didn’t pursue it. That is for another post, however. Another post I’ll have to shake out of that poor tree.
Damn tree.
nablopomo 07 day 15
Oh I know that feeling…
I just hope shaking the tree will bring down all the dust, cob webs and rotten fruit so the harvest season will be a joy. Some day…. maybe…
(Btw, my mom has always been on my case on writing. Another common checkpoint for you and me!) Hope you’re doing well, Becky-girl! I know I’m enjoying the runner you made so much – and it keeps me thinking on how you!
Note to myself: Always a good idea to read through what you write before you post something you can’t edit 😉