Don’t worry about the story or idea making sense before you’ve written it. Write the damn thing and you’ll find a way to make it logical after.
Life has no answers. The consequence of our choices is our only reminder that what we do can matter, but doesn’t always
Your feet CAN get wetter, it’s best to avoid puddles…
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.