Nefarious times I live in
Forgive me, fellow bloggers, for I have
sinned. I did not intend to leave this blog
for almost a month while I frittered away
five weeks with my son. My mother visited for
ten days and I did not blog. I had eight
hours of babysitting one week and I did not
blog. This past week -- my son's first back
at school in over a month -- coincided with
the visit of an old friend and I did not
blog.
But during those eight hours of babysitting,
I started to think about writing again, about
tackling the never-ending story in some
different way, fitting in time for
as-yet-nonexistent freelance work, attempting
to keep this blog somewhat current (all while
finishing household projects). Good writing
grows best in the dark (thanks, rcb!). What
sees the light here in fragmentary form tends
to stay that way. Or sometimes it embarrasses
me later in its undeveloped melodrama and
weak attempts at capturing reality.
It's tempting, really
tempting, to
put up little bits and pieces on the blog.
There's nothing like instant feedback to keep
one going, except that I don't keep going.
The past -- meh. I've dug into it, and
created stories out of it, have exposed
enough. Now I'm looking to take the facts of
my life, the weird experiences and characters
as twisted and lively as wisteria in bloom,
and make them fictional. I want to harness
the crisscrossing metaphors of my
subconscious.
Blah, blah, blah. I'm continually on the edge
of something, a change, a new way of being,
perpetually on the hopeful precipice. But
I've come so far from the first days of this
blog, typing in the dark and yearning for
more.
Image: My mother and me walking
in Muir Woods, August 2009. Photo by Mr.
Trinkle.