Over tea, I explained to a friend how I’ve all but ceased to write lately. Creative endeavors tend to make a sensitive soul feel pretty damn narcissistic when the world turns faster than usual, seemingly spinning off its axis, things bigger than whether or not I ate too many calories today or how that run went seeming to have any importance in the grand scheme of things. But then we talked about how the grand scheme of things can’t only be the bad things. You have to keep creating so there’s a balance.
But then we talked about how the grand scheme of things can’t only be the bad things. You have to keep creating so there’s a balance.
Lately, creating is all I want to do. Write things, make things with my hands, build things I care about. But writing for fun, for personal projects, sometimes just doesn’t happen. It sometimes just can’t, for me.
During a particularly rough patch near the end of July, I wrote a few words down that capture how much I want to do just this, but how tough the doing can be.
Can you sense how badly I want to put all my eggs in this basket?
Can you sense my fear that I’m not good enough to make it work?
Can you sense I’m struggling to come up for air as the wave rolls over me and briny swirls pin me under?
There’s no clever lesson or ending or conclusion here. Just keep writing, girl.