HE SWEEPS the dusting of snow.
I blow the dust off the scale. Also a manuscript.
I’m tackling the FORMLESS this year and the first act appears to be blowing the dust off. I gather words out of a thought-swirl, capture them, hoping they’ll make sense. It feels good to start. But I find in my computer I’ve already written 30 chapters. When was that? I’d completely forgotten! It’s amazing just how far things can fall off the radar screen.
I cringe at the old words. It’s a writer thing, hating the sound of our own voices. The key is to find the gems buried in the mess and try again to sculpt a setting for them, one that is accessible.
In two sentences I have just equated writing to song and sculpture. Not that crazy, I guess. All art shares this: Something to be expressed and an endeavor to express it.
In this, I contend every person is an artist. Everyone has something to express and seeks a way to express it. I hear it in everyone I know, even those who would no more call themselves artists than birds.
But I digress….
IT TAKES GUTS to go back and read old words, to hear the sound of a voice that grates, especially one’s own.
But I am not without guts.
I am willing to blow the dust off. (Admittedly, it has taken a week to decide this and go back and look at them again.)
* * *
On the kitchen counter sit Christmas cards received, hung, taken down. Nearby, 2 cards that arrived for Ma from people I didn’t know about. I saved the addresses and will today write to let them know. Mom is gone.
I will do it today before today turns into June or July.
It’ll be the most important writing done today.
And then….I will go blow more dust off things.