There is so much inspiration ricocheting around my brain right now! So many possibilities…so much unfocused determination!
Part of my issue is I’m trying out this whole journal style stream of consciousness, remembering that THAT is where my beauty used to manifest itself in my writing. Stories would sprout out of weeds…
The simple act would direct the inspiration to focus. There were some dark years, when I did simply journal in a book…when my hands would hurt so badly (I have arthritis in my fingers…it’s easier for me to type than to write) that I would swoop and swirl Sanskrit...as in the Bell Jar, when Esther finds that in her deep depression she can’t write. Not that she has writer’s block - - she can’t write…
It makes me blue that I didn’t think to TYPE during those years. I look at the notebooks now for snippets of feelings during pregnancy, I only wrote a few times. Why, I wonder?
I think I was so self absorbed and so intent on what was happening in the present I didn’t even think to incorporate my old friend writing into the picture. Now, I’m ashamed to admit that I regret that. I was a different person then. Still me, only blander. I feel bad that my husband put up with it. I was a bit shallow…now I’m more the girl he met 10 years ago. Introspective, furiously typing away (although I was writing away with a pen at that age…no office jobs to ruin my fingers yet)…calm…newly sober and eyes full on the world. Newly in love.
Motherhood has brought me back to that girl. She and I are the same person again.
What’s been inspiring me today is the website Shorpy. In it I see hundreds of possible narratives. Part of my subconscious tells me that I need to focus on my own stories, for ease of writing, but the other part of my subconscious affirms what I know to be true: I am boring.