Separate Creatures
HOLY HECK
But I'm not gonna talk about that right now.
In other news, I CLOG MY OWN CREATIVITY.
Here's the thing: I keep stoppering my poor, tiny, little brain with delusions of fanciness. The expectations are too high! No, they're not even too high; they're just out there somewhere. Somewhere intangible that doesn't exist. Something fake that can't be reached — not due to lack of skill or energy or effort but due to the wispy nature of the waking nightmare.
Soooooooo, crap. Maybe. I don't want to talk about it. Meadowvale! Meadowvale waits. Meadowvale waits and begs and hopes and breathes. Yes, I'm about to stretch an analogy: in there story right now, the characters are finally in the midst of their trek back east to see — hoping against hope — if their families are still alive. It's been almost a year since they heard anything from their lost loved ones or the invading empire that swept through their village.
I feel like the book itself is finally considering its trek back to complete the journey. The book itself is reluctantly considering is it even worth the pain, the potential heartbreak of coming to the walls of the enemy's lair only to be slain or — worse — sent home knowing that husbands and wives and children have been lost forever.
I cannot tell you how often my literature has simply reflected my own heart.
Actually, I can: always. It always reflects my own heart. Sometimes, I know it. Sometimes, I am so surprised to see yet another parallel pop up in unexpected words.
I think even I have finally turned around. I've looked across the vast plain hanging between my past, my present, and my future — which lies in the same direction as my past: old dreams that were trod down. And some new hopes! Like Alabaster and Rrraktotrrraka (the librarian)!
Crap crap crap!
I cannot tell you how awesome Alabaster is going to be! And Allison! Dawg! But I say crap because, as you know, I've neither published nor even written the first blasted book.
And that was the point of this post: I've been clogging the crap out of my cerebrum with waking nightmares of various kinds of expectations.
Ah, but some days, there are blasts, splashes, waves of freedom. Some days, there are moods or modes that pour forth with words! Words I tell you! You don't understand! Maybe you do — but words: words are my gems.
No no. Not quite. They're my woodland creatures that crowd around me, that I wish to befriend. Too often, I'm timid about them, and I think they sense it: they know intuitively that I'm not confident, and they scurry away.
Sometimes, I am warm, bold, embracing. In those times, the words crowd around, chittering, tweeting, grunting, burbling, bubbling, squawking, neighing, belling, and braying.
What's most striking is that those times are never summoned by some wresting force. It's never a matter of girding up my loins and straining my limbs. Each time, it's just a matter of realizing I don't have to control them; I simply get to embrace them. In those times — when I am approaching them like worthwhile, separate creatures — they are amiable.
Amiable is an understatement. They are intimate. They nuzzle and nibble and cuddle and steal my shoes.
Do you understand?! Words: I don't know why. I don't know what it is. God makes His kids differently. He set words in my heart. Too slowly, I embrace the gift, but God is patient. God is merciful, and He waits with delight. He watches me bumble about, stub my toes, skin my knees as I learn how to navigate the big world He places before me.
But I'm not gonna talk about that right now.
In other news, I CLOG MY OWN CREATIVITY.
Here's the thing: I keep stoppering my poor, tiny, little brain with delusions of fanciness. The expectations are too high! No, they're not even too high; they're just out there somewhere. Somewhere intangible that doesn't exist. Something fake that can't be reached — not due to lack of skill or energy or effort but due to the wispy nature of the waking nightmare.
Soooooooo, crap. Maybe. I don't want to talk about it. Meadowvale! Meadowvale waits. Meadowvale waits and begs and hopes and breathes. Yes, I'm about to stretch an analogy: in there story right now, the characters are finally in the midst of their trek back east to see — hoping against hope — if their families are still alive. It's been almost a year since they heard anything from their lost loved ones or the invading empire that swept through their village.
I feel like the book itself is finally considering its trek back to complete the journey. The book itself is reluctantly considering is it even worth the pain, the potential heartbreak of coming to the walls of the enemy's lair only to be slain or — worse — sent home knowing that husbands and wives and children have been lost forever.
I cannot tell you how often my literature has simply reflected my own heart.
Actually, I can: always. It always reflects my own heart. Sometimes, I know it. Sometimes, I am so surprised to see yet another parallel pop up in unexpected words.
I think even I have finally turned around. I've looked across the vast plain hanging between my past, my present, and my future — which lies in the same direction as my past: old dreams that were trod down. And some new hopes! Like Alabaster and Rrraktotrrraka (the librarian)!
Crap crap crap!
I cannot tell you how awesome Alabaster is going to be! And Allison! Dawg! But I say crap because, as you know, I've neither published nor even written the first blasted book.
And that was the point of this post: I've been clogging the crap out of my cerebrum with waking nightmares of various kinds of expectations.
Ah, but some days, there are blasts, splashes, waves of freedom. Some days, there are moods or modes that pour forth with words! Words I tell you! You don't understand! Maybe you do — but words: words are my gems.
No no. Not quite. They're my woodland creatures that crowd around me, that I wish to befriend. Too often, I'm timid about them, and I think they sense it: they know intuitively that I'm not confident, and they scurry away.
Sometimes, I am warm, bold, embracing. In those times, the words crowd around, chittering, tweeting, grunting, burbling, bubbling, squawking, neighing, belling, and braying.
What's most striking is that those times are never summoned by some wresting force. It's never a matter of girding up my loins and straining my limbs. Each time, it's just a matter of realizing I don't have to control them; I simply get to embrace them. In those times — when I am approaching them like worthwhile, separate creatures — they are amiable.
Amiable is an understatement. They are intimate. They nuzzle and nibble and cuddle and steal my shoes.
Do you understand?! Words: I don't know why. I don't know what it is. God makes His kids differently. He set words in my heart. Too slowly, I embrace the gift, but God is patient. God is merciful, and He waits with delight. He watches me bumble about, stub my toes, skin my knees as I learn how to navigate the big world He places before me.
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