I haven’t written in such a long time I may have forgotten how.
I sent a story to a friend the other day, and it read more like an outline. “Sunny. Swam. Got tired.” That wasn’t the story, but that was the rhythm. Almost a poem, but no heart. Almost a story, but no details.
And it got me thinking about how we go through seasons of expression and creativity.
These days I have been working on refinishing old furniture like a mad man. I haven’t worked in my art journal. I haven’t written in my blog. I haven’t given a thought to the coming spring. I haven’t started trays and trays of seedlings to plant. I haven’t prepared my garden beds. I did buy some flowers at the grocery yesterday… but that’s a far cry from my usual spring activity. Instead of ruining my nails in dirt, I’ve been ruining them in paint and sandpaper.
And writing? I have no idea what’s up with that. I think I’m in a holding pattern. I’m sure there are poems and essays planting their seeds in my thoughts, but they are yet to sprout.
And you just can’t rush these things.
It’s like watching paint dry. Best to find something else to do while you wait.
And there is always something else to do while you wait.