It is fun writing again, despite the fact that I’ve basically been navel-gazing and writing “improv-style,” i.e., going with the first thing that comes in my head and letting it grow from there. “Yes, and”-ing all my own crap.  It’s fun, but comes across as a bit manic. Frenetic.

That’s a good energy to start with, but as always, once I spend enough time looking inward and picking at my own soul, I really get sick of it and know that growth comes from looking out, up, beyond.

Ideally I want a mix of my brain and heart innards splattered on the page (yum! I think I had page-splattered brain and heart innards the last time I ate out!) and a lens focused outward on the world.  That will naturally have some brain and heart splatter, too…but I’d like to get beyond myself.  I’d like to weave it all into something bigger, something crafted, something Other.

I started reading Stephen King’s The Stand yesterday. (Can’t help but love the craptastic mini-series and the book is always something I’ve heard great things about.)  The first 80 pages have been riveting. Brilliant. I later read a piece from Tina Fey, her prayer to her daughter as written in Bossypants.  (At least that’s where it was credited as having come from). Vastly different authors, but both with their own ease of style, their own voice, their own tight-drum rhythm.

That easy read is tough writing. It’s editing. It’s stewing. It’s marinating. It’s questioning.

It’s time.

Right now, that’s what I lack. Sometimes the 15 minutes I spend here on this blog feels like a luxury.  Sometimes it feels just right.