Oh, how I’ve missed this.
Writing. Typing. A blog.
I don’t think anyone reads this. (If I’m wrong and you do… hi!) But it’s not really about that. It’s about the rhythms in the sentences. It’s about the words themselves. Whether they’re tired-out-old-comfortable kinds of words like I tend to use in this blog, or the rare-beautiful-fragile-as-a-butterfly kinds of words like in a poem, there’s still this wonder to it. The tools of the trade. This. I want this. I love this.
People talk about “weaving words,” and I like that picture. Like a web you’re spinning, or a spell you conjure—a good story is something you get caught up in. And when you’re writing and something seems wrong, you know it. Like a tear in the fabric of your fictional reality. Like a dropped stitch, or a sloppy hem. Something missing, or something needs to be ripped out and done over right.
I love this. I love it. It can be frustrating. It can be lonely… writing stories you’re not sure anyone other than you will ever read or care about. I read about writers who develop these partnerships and friendships with artists and work together on these collaborative projects and I get so jealous. I want a Dave McKean to my Neil Gaiman. I want a Laura Cornell to my Jamie Lee Curtis. It’s fun to have people visit a world of your making and see it, imagine it well enough, to bring it out into the real world in the form of visual art.
I’ve been struggling with this as I try to put together my Shadows and Monsters book. That’s right, I’m really going through with it… I’m going to attempt a Kickstarter campaign. Nothing huge. I just want a handful of books for myself, a few to maybe sell locally, and at least one to put into the system at our library. And of course a copy for any supporters who might want one. I know so many talented artists; I wanted to try to get them involved. Beck (and possibly Ben) are helping me. I might be able to bribe Wesley, but I doubt it. I sent an old friend from high school a message about it but never heard back. So it may not come to anything (the art, not the book… the book is definitely coming to fruition, even it’s not the form I’d hoped).
But I’m getting sidetracked.
This. This is what I love. The clack of my fingers on the keys. The way the words just magically appear on the white of the page as I type. I was talking to my mom recently about the parable of the talents in the Bible. I was talking about investing, and she pointed out that of course that parable was about using your abilities, not about money, and how I didn’t have to worry because I was in a position where I used my abilities every day.
Do I, though? I mean, some. I get to form friendships with some of the regulars. I get to plan parties and events. I get to utilize my knowledge of book titles and authors. I can be creative when it comes to displays, bulletin boards, etc. And I do absolutely love designing and formatting posters, flyers, brochures, etc.
But I don’t write.
There are very few jobs you get to do where you write. Writing for a living is nigh impossible. I may just have to settle for writing in the blank-space-edges around making-a-living. Whatever time and energy will allow.
I’m better than I’ve been.
I still don’t know where I’m going.