Story one is on the back burner as I await some very needed input. How amazing it is i have started another one, inspired by a dream. And as i am surprised I’m not that this story is a totally different style as when i paint every painting seems to be in another style like i have no distinct voice. And I’m surprised there is more to be drawn from the well. But i feel a little uninspired in a way, not so passionate about this story. Seems it carries the same surprises for me, the writer, which i love, and seems as it unfolds it is either has been written in the stars or i plain jacked the idea from someone. Can a writer or artist be like that? Can a voice waver and move in and out as it pleases. Usually artists have a certain style so you can see a painting or read a story and you hear their voice. Silly question i know. Of course i can be any way. I had a dream once maybe over fifteen years ago that has stayed with me. An artist was selling his paintings on the street at some neighbourhood garage sale, perhaps inspired by the annual Glebe garage sale that happen every year in Ottawa, does it still happen, i don’t know. It was a long time ago i lived there. i stopped to talk to him, though i didn’t buy any, even in dreams artists are poor buggers. Kindly he gave me advice. Said that i needed to choose something. He had chosen lions. He painted lions, in all various ways. But his subject matter stayed the same. So maybe that’s a way to be. Have the style transient but the subject or genre fixed. But i feel very eclectic as a person. I like freedom to move wherever the brush or pen takes me.
I am 9000 words deep, which for a novel, isn’t deep at all. But i feel like im up to my neck. I wonder where are the other 40000 words plus are going to come from and how far it will leave me under. What I’m writing, probably won’t be read my anyone or not more then five people but has inspired a fear in me. it’s one of the most terrifying things in my life right now(not true btw). Making me return to the truth that in life, the journey one goes on while embarking towards any goal is always more important then the goal itself. The goal is one blip in the journey, but the journey is many blips. Is this why people feel empty and let down after a big achievement? We’ve put so much emphasis on the destination and not enough awareness while getting there. Our bad habit of placing importance on titles and achievements devalues the experience.
So I’m writing this novel, still feel silly calling it a novel, that may never be finished, would be hard pressed to be published because of content and cohesiveness, may never be read, would certainly be judged, and i might be empty afterwards and feeling i have nothing else to write about.
I have my soundtrack i listen to without fail. The Rachel’s and Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No 1. They bring me back to the head space where the story takes place.
I can’t get out of my head, i think about it many times through out the day. I often i have to hold ideas like one holds their bladder, until i can write them down. I get restless looking a the clock, waiting for the time i might duck downstairs and get more then a few minutes to write. Otherwise i am writing when baby sleeps, when there is a lull in the family commotion, which doesn’t happen often. I feel a little addicted, a little foolish. And the content leaves my mind feeling chaotic, restless and uncomfortable. I go full circle wondering why i am investing myself in this thing, that seems an entity of it’s own, using me to channel some incoherent babble of my inner monologue and imagination.
20,000 words deep now. And i come full circle again, it’s a real ferris wheel, realizing time and time again, life is about filling your head up with ideas, goals, purpose and there is nothing more i want to do now then sit down and write. What else could be better? Sure i would paint too, but writing needs no clean up when i am called away to care for family. Getting lost in something that gives me a sense of wholeness, that no other can fill. I feel as though I’m holding hands with myself a little finally, that i have accepted life as a bit of a one person play. But baby steps of course. Things becoming clear but I’m still uncertain i want them to.
I’m hoping all the threads come together into one story. As it stands I’m overwhelmed the amount of pieces i feel i’m tending. Like when you are solely responsible for Christmas dinner, and you have all the stove elements on, food also in the oven and slow cooker going. Desperately waiting to see if everything connects, but still not sure exactly what I’m writing, what type of story. Part of me is certain it does, or can be made to connect. I suspect I might end up with a Miller-esque book if I’m diligent enough to finish this project. I will have no problem talking about pricks…Miller might be too high an aspiration. A girl can dream right? The first book I read by him, and it was only recently, immediately I identified with his style. I’ve fallen in love with the evolving artist. To know about the artist is as important as knowing the art. For me at least, I appreciate context. Watching personal evolution of friends, family and if you are lucky enough to personally know a dedicated artist…where their craft is them and they are their craft, passion inextinguishable. Count yourself lucky to have a ring side seat.
I should trust my process. Although only a default process I use with painting. Having some sort of idea, from vague to solid or a feeling to create and then just going with the flow, letting go at some point. That’s quite the process right? But my favourite part is getting lost in the moment, it becomes it’s own entity, meditative, collective unconscious, muse, you become a vessel of sorts, I don’t know, there are names for it and others articulate it better then i do…and you the vessel, get to bleed it all over the paper or canvas, sounds excruciatingly delightful…an insatiable event to which there is no end….although Miller says in Tropic of cancer “thank god there are no more books to write” He is rambling, unrepentant and he becomes infamous for said book… I suspect he was trying to throw off the chains of ‘trying to write a book’ and just write. The monkey on our creative backs that wakes us up in the middle of the night and has us writing feverishly, losing sleep, you feel a bit used, and it can be unhealthy at times….
Writing is one part fantasy and one part confession. If done well, even the writer fails to tell them apart.