I have nearly more creativity right now, at this point in time, than I can physically handle.
It’s such an odd thing. I have to embrace it rather than fear it. I want to supreme my heart into a hundred little segments and set them all out to do the work.
The muse is in residence. We are having tea, or she is having whatever comes out of an empty tea-kettle when it is poured at a party of the imagination. I am having wine, sweet as fresh fruit. I am watching my calories. I am stretching my legs out. I am greeting the sun, saluting the moon.
I am living the Faulkner line: “A story is in you. It has to come out.” It feels as though all the stories I’ve ever half-daydreamed a setting for are pulling themselves toward me. They see, perhaps, that I have the time for them that I’ve never had before. Exercise is helping my head, and unfortunately, I have hours and hours now. Not really, of course, some of this time needs to be put to use figuring out how I am going to pay to keep myself alive. But for the time being, I am a mason jar of fireflies. All the while, I am putting the story into me as I re-read and re-read the book. I need to keep finishing it so that I can start working on it, which can only be explained by reading it and I can’t give up even a single iota of it until I’ve wrapped my arms around it fully. Till I can crow about it and sing about it and not have a whole other truth yet to be revealed on a final pass. I can only say that it is a doorway to me and even if I have to keep passing through and finding myself in the backyard, eventually, I will get in this house. I will
I know it’s weird. I gotta go weird for a while. My weird bucket has been empty for too long and there’s a lot of weird in the well.
My sister’s boyfriend, intending to be helpful, being urgent as he can be when he thinks there’s an opportunity ripe on the vine sent me a link to a public radio writing job. A journalist’s job. Perhaps if I wasn’t so chock full of…everything. Not in a manic way, just in a…oh, shit, I love writing and reading and I’ve played so hard at not having time or space for it and now, even out of terrible circumstances, I’ve been handed them back as a gift?…sort of way. Keeping having to find ways to be grateful for his interest and support, but not express my bemusement at his high expectations of me. My poor little niecelings and/or nephews. I will give them an excess of ice cream and tell them unsettling tales of the sea and perhaps let them play with my children who will by then have mastered all of the Archer’s Tales.
Ah, yes. Real. Life.
I am not going to be afraid to be inspired because it might make a hard life harder. I am going to be afraid of fearing inspiration because it has already made a hard life unlivable.