I haven't really written anything in months and my skin is going to peel back starting at my fingernails if I don't do so soon. It's like my body can only create one thing at a time and writing is in the backseat until at least September. It is worth it, but God, I hope not. Do you ever feel like your skin is peeling off and hope you're right so you can finally see what you're all about? Well come on. Let's have it over with. Let me see.
Nobody else wants to see but me, so it's okay. I am an eight-hour-a-day girl except to myself. Eight hours at work and eight hours in the bed, give or take. Eight hours at work and give. Eight hours in the bed and take. It doesn't matter so stop pretending it matters. I am not your friend and I am not your artist. Am I? I exist for a few seconds to everyone unless I exist for eight hours.
Very small. And some of you are so big that you take up the whole world.
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Writing can be cold and hot, and sometimes it's directly in the median, the center, dangling there waiting for you to bring it inside and make it into something; shaping, forming (even "foaming" sometimes) - as if shaping it would have any impact on the reality of the words themselves; how they tangle in the phrasings and paragraphs that they cradle. Sometimes it's just a matter of keeping a notebook handy all of the time. Even taking notes of random conversations you hear, or perhaps random thoughts, or whatever it may be, I think it helps.
In any event, you're a fabulous writer and I know you will come along once you feel the opportunity sets you well. Then again, writing about writing is still "writing," so even if one doesn't think that they are making progress in that regard, they're definitely making something out a mole hill.
Blues whales in the sea; the enormity of "we."
I love what you're doing. Please, please keep it up...
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