Life on the open page
I've been stressing over NaNoWriMo, and this morning I realized why. I sat down at my desk, opened the notebook ready to write, and fireworks burst across the empty page. They were my feelings. The problem is I've been concentrating on the novel and neglecting myself. I hadn't written morning pages since October 18.
I didn't write anything just then. I closed the notebook. My first instinct was to blog about it, but that would still avoid the issue of getting back in touch with myself. My social needs are real, too, but no one else can fulfil me if I'm at odds with myself. So I masturbated, had a shower, finally went back to my desk and opened the morning pages notebook instead of the novel. That was what I needed.
I have some serious life changes looming on the horizon, mostly positive. Last night something more came up, which I'm not prepared to write about publicly yet. It's good in many ways, not the least of which is that it brought my issues into clear focus this morning. I am considering dropping NaNo this time around. I've been looking for a running spring, when what I have is only a dark well without a bucket. I don't even know the depth. I need the well. I need to know about it. I need to pour whatever I've got.
In other words, I need to write in a place where it's safe to be troubled, crazy, self-absorbed, a wreckage, without needing to shape something meaningful to anyone else.
Now that I've written those three pregnant pages, maybe I'll be ready to work on the novel when I get home from Two Rivers this afternoon. I'll give it another shot.
