I don’t have any good blog entries in me right now, but I wanted to say hi, to share a quick snapshot of my month as a manic writer.
Every day this week, I’ve run face-first into my perceived failure and thought I cannot do this and choked on the frustration of being such a slow writer in a daily race against my expectations.
Every day this week, I’ve done it anyway. I’m not behind (yet). However, the load of other responsibilities stacked unevenly on my head is growing heavier, and the weekend looms like a low doorway just ahead.
My brain feels fragmented, picked over, deflated drop by drop like the foam balancing on my vanilla bean cappuccino.
I love writing, but I can’t explain why—even to myself—when I’m in the thick of it, unable to see the forest for the words.
The process feels a little like this: standing in a room of sunbeams grasping for them one at a time, never sure if I’ve caught the right one or snagged a different one by mistake or simply grabbed a handful of air.
Air and light and particles of gleaming dust and failure and triumph and coffee… and now, sleep.