Back in my daze
I've always found journeys interesting, from those most strictly defined to those unbound by figurative language. I find myself in position these days to stare into the back of many a contractor's vehicle. There's a surprising amount of carpet, and a somewhat unexpected amount or pride, also. What perplexes me more than anything though is how often the painter is surprised at how much space they're missing, that there was no plan to haul away what they just purchased. Staring at the back of their head, or the side of their face, all of their posture begs the question of "how did it get like this?" Much like the carpet, the shelves tell a story, the paint splatters, the piles of equipment, the disparate pieces of various machines, broken poles, ruined brushes, scraps of paper and plastic and plans.
Recently, a kind of fog lifted for me. I had a few different things rolling downhill at me, and after dodging a few of them (or, letting a few of them roll over me, then recovering) I cleared a bit of brain space. I wondered what had happened to this blog, and my writing, and my stories, ones I had written, ones I was in the middle of writing, and ones I had only the barest ideas of. I was convinced that for one particular story, I had come up with the greatest name for a character in contemporary American literature. I think I was safe to feel this way because I was also convinced that I would never find the name. I had to go back four years in my catalog of musings and scribbles. I blinked when I looked at the date. Surely, it hadn't been that long. But rolling back the clock also showed me what my productivity was like, month to month, season to season. It had been four years. It had been over a year since I had even thought of this idea. I also found that name. The me of now and the me of 2014 had very different sensibilities. The me of now found the name to be far too unsubtle, clumsy and heavy handed. A small part of me was aware that I was a still growing, my tastes still changing, but mostly I was disappointed in myself. Shaking my head looking at the pile of refuse wondering how things had become so junky and ruined.
After I was done pitying myself, I understood the biggest takeaway was that I found my notes. I knew back then that I wasn't ready to write the story, so I had to put as many notes down as I could conceive, and time capsule them forward to a better, wiser version of myself. And while I can't be sure the package landed on the correct doorstep, I was energized to receive it. I made immediate plans for past novels, current novels, future novels. I didn't have to squint for an inkling of how I would spend this year in my writing. I updated my inventory of people and circumstances and conversations. I even remembered this dusty space and decided on some words to commit to a post. I felt like myself again.
So, the immediate thought would be a question. Where did I go? If I wasn't myself, who was I? If I was lost, how did I tumble off the trail? But, I think with a few steps' distance, the more important piece isn't a question at all, but a statement of fact: you can make it back. Perhaps wherever I was I had to go to find that.
Full is good.
Recently, a kind of fog lifted for me. I had a few different things rolling downhill at me, and after dodging a few of them (or, letting a few of them roll over me, then recovering) I cleared a bit of brain space. I wondered what had happened to this blog, and my writing, and my stories, ones I had written, ones I was in the middle of writing, and ones I had only the barest ideas of. I was convinced that for one particular story, I had come up with the greatest name for a character in contemporary American literature. I think I was safe to feel this way because I was also convinced that I would never find the name. I had to go back four years in my catalog of musings and scribbles. I blinked when I looked at the date. Surely, it hadn't been that long. But rolling back the clock also showed me what my productivity was like, month to month, season to season. It had been four years. It had been over a year since I had even thought of this idea. I also found that name. The me of now and the me of 2014 had very different sensibilities. The me of now found the name to be far too unsubtle, clumsy and heavy handed. A small part of me was aware that I was a still growing, my tastes still changing, but mostly I was disappointed in myself. Shaking my head looking at the pile of refuse wondering how things had become so junky and ruined.
After I was done pitying myself, I understood the biggest takeaway was that I found my notes. I knew back then that I wasn't ready to write the story, so I had to put as many notes down as I could conceive, and time capsule them forward to a better, wiser version of myself. And while I can't be sure the package landed on the correct doorstep, I was energized to receive it. I made immediate plans for past novels, current novels, future novels. I didn't have to squint for an inkling of how I would spend this year in my writing. I updated my inventory of people and circumstances and conversations. I even remembered this dusty space and decided on some words to commit to a post. I felt like myself again.
So, the immediate thought would be a question. Where did I go? If I wasn't myself, who was I? If I was lost, how did I tumble off the trail? But, I think with a few steps' distance, the more important piece isn't a question at all, but a statement of fact: you can make it back. Perhaps wherever I was I had to go to find that.
Full is good.
Comments
Post a Comment