Well, with a subtle blink of an eye, it's been five days since my last blog post. I've noticed that posts have also been few and far between on quite a number of other blogs, as well. So it's not just me. I, however, cannot blame my lack of a post on the gauzy spring weather, for the wind has been gradually picking up over the last week. Not hat weather in the least bit, unless you'd like your head gear to take a lift off and land in Deep Space Nine.
Today, I eagerly await my new, custom-made little
planter to arrive in the mail: this, I have been giddily looking forward to all week. Forget the writing that needs a major editing job; it all uneventfully blurs in the end, anyway (much like the vast night sky when viewed through a telescope).
I have been editing, discouraged like a downtrodden madwoman, but I've been working on it.
If you're interested, this is the writing process:
Literally, everything that I turn in arrives back to me edited down to a stub. This has been the process for the last two-to-three years of my life. On average, there are at least twenty edits per every two pages (amid the jumble of words), and in truth, this is why I procrastinate with the process. I know that a chapter will return with many, many changes, and this, my friend, is such a bitter fruit to swallow. This, in turn, affects the clarity of my writing, for why should I try when I feel completely incompetent? In this trying process, my creative voice is lost, as is my confidence as a writer, and most importantly, my confidence in thinking that I am a writer. If only I knew four-and-a-half years ago...
* * *
A
saying that I've always loved is, "Everything going to hell in a hen basket," and I don't even truly know what it means. The imagery resonates with how I feel when writing this post--the energy zapped, the spirit fallen, and the mind ever the more cloudy and opaque.
On the other hand, the physical act of writing creatively in my last
post revived this faltering Ophelia. In that moment of utter clarity and sheer, raw bliss, the words flowed organically from brain, to hands, to keyboard. A joyous act. It is moments such as this that I am truly and contentedly alive, consciously aware that I can write.
So, yes, I
feel what you mean, although the circumstances may differ: it's a collective emotion that characterizes life, and connects us all in this time-altered dance. Personally, I am constantly reminded that positivity is all around; we are just sometimes numb and/or blind to it. Take the time to feel it, for it lingers like a deeply-emotional song, which stays with you for days on end.
