Monday, March 7, 2011

searching is the opposite of losing

Or some other random bullshit I have scribbled on a post-it pasted to the wall above my writing desk. I took today as my day to specifically to finish one short story and to get my claws into the other. I started, as usual, with a free-write to get the blood moving through the right parts of my brain and let a deluge of brain sludge pour out instead, choking up the pipes for anything more creative. So it goes. I wrote how I feel trapped by own voice at times, that often when I try to write it comes out contrived. When I journal, tweet, blog or email I have no censor and can write my heart out. But there is something intimidating or who knows what about opening up a document and going into it with the intention of crafting something. I'm too hard on myself. I know I am. I have to give myself permission to write crap, as all the wide-eyed writing gurus say after they light purple candles and invoke the Goddess of whatever, but I can't help it. I'm hard on myself.

I mini-panicked this weekend, reading a fantasy book by an author whose work I love but whose tweets lead me to believe she is kind of an idiot in real life. I panicked wondering if the grace and generosity I have in real life sucks the mojo out of my creative self. I don't know. I'm just in one of those creative frozen zones that come. They pass, I know they do. But telling myself that and believing it while I'm awake at 3am, eating sauerkraut out of the jar to try to ease the gnawing inside is a whole other story.

Reading PUTA: My Life in Sex by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez has made today bearable. That and walking the dog in the rain.

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