Wednesday, November 1, 2017
The Insecure Writer's Support Group - November Edition
Learn more about our group and sign up by visiting the website HERE.
How about a big, round of applause for our fantastic co-hosts for this month: Tonja Drecker, Diane Burton, MJ Fifield, and Rebecca Douglass! Make sure to stop by and tell them thanks for all their hard work!
* * *
Life has been weird. I mean, weirder than usual. Ever since Hurricane Irma I've felt disconnected from everything: life, the universe. Even the number 42 brings no comfort. I've edited my novel off and on - a novel I completed in June. I wrote the dang thing in ONE MONTH but it's November and I'm still only half way finished with the first round of edits.
And I'm fine with that. Really. It's the strange, disconnected feeling, the illusion that I'm not really here but just observing life going on around me and participating no where, offering nothing in return that's weighting on my mind.
Maybe it's that Celtic shifting of the seasons: All Hallow's Eve, Samhain, All Soul's Night and all that. Perhaps the veil between this world and the spirit world IS lighter, thinner, flimsier than we think and I'm having a bit of trouble deciding where I belong.
*cue Yeats' "The Stolen Child"*
But I have been working, diligently, on some other projects. The novel haunts me, which is good: it's horror. When I do edit, it's all consuming so, perhaps, it's not such a bad thing to let it lie for a week or two at a time. I've been working with my hands more, sewing, creating things that are tangible and corporeal. Stories are more real, yes, but they require your soul. You realize this, right? Embroidery doesn't ask for a pact signed in blood. Writing, however, does.
Don't tell me you didn't know that?
So, what? Am I afraid? Afraid of what might happen if I offer up my creative self on a pyre to be consumed by the stories that threaten to match-strike at any moment? The projects bring me peace and open up a side of me that relishes the idea of turning back and walking muddy tracks at the turn of the twentieth century. I need that.
It's the mud that keeps me grounded.
How do you find balance between two selves? The writer self and the self that needs roots, that needs dirt under the nails and the prick of needles to remind you that there's more things in heaven and earth, Horatio? Or would you rather catch flame with the fire of your stories?
I'll tell you a secret:
There's also a part of me that longs to burn.
Good luck to all you WriMos and happy November!
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