My writing grows by leaps and bounds like a tiny, feather whispy fetus rubbing against my intellectual womb, and then the story slides out all slick and crying. I sit in class everyday with people who can write better than I can, and it strengthens me.
When I read stories like this one by Deb Marquardt, I realize that it doesn’t always matter how well you write, but it matters that you have something to say. I pause, and I reflect. What do I have to say? I write all the time, but what am I really saying?
One of my professors made an entry on his blog about beginnings of stories. If the beginning sucks, do I still read? If my (hypothetical) baby has a colicky first year, do I still love it? Yes, to both, but I’ll damn sure try to fix both of them. When I read his post, I realized I have never had a good first line of writing. It takes me a while to sort of ease into my writing. I don’t flop into it like I do an easy chair, and I am never as comfortable in it either. I can’t just sit back and put my feet up and relax while I write; I have to think about every word, every jot and tiddle. I wish I could relax.
Switch gears.
I am in a much better place today than I was yesterday. Yesterday was bad in a way that I can’t and won’t try to describe. Today, I realize that I just have to keep on. I have to own my share, as well as I can, and go forward. I wonder if it is any wonder that I wore my “I have no more fruit to give” t-shirt. I just need to be, and not waste my energy on things I can’t control. I have no more fruit to give.
Reason Breeds Insanity 