I have not done much serious writing this week. Too much distraction, excitement, with the book coming out. I thought I might feel let-down on its release, because it’s been in the works so long. I don’t. I feel a strong sense of accomplishment. I’m in a place where it doesn’t matter if it’s a best seller. What matters is I stuck with it and saw it to completion, even though it was scary and hard. I’m an artist, after all. And I have that slightly distracted, always-a-better-project-around-the-next-bend affliction of so many left brainers. We’re not flakes. We just too often over-reach ourselves.
I scribbled out some poetry yesterday. Poetry is like a warm-up. I’m told I should focus on poetry, but it’s not a discipline. It’s just shit that comes out when I’m too tied up to concentrate on larger things. When I’m depressed, or melancholy, or just suffering a case of mush-brain.
I can feel a story coming sometimes, though. Like the anticipation of foreplay. You know he’ll be home from work soon. And you want to try something new, something that will make his eyebrows go up, and you’ll see that dark excitement in his eyes. It’s like that, just thinking of the moment and wondering which way it will go this time. Could be a flop, a total disaster, or it could be mind-blowing. It’s worth the leap.
That’s where I am this morning. I see words, snippets of phrases. I just have to figure out how they go together. I just have to begin.