Which is unlikely to happen.
I had a post all written (well, half written) (kind of a toss-off) (ok, I hadn’t thought it completely through) about my fears and the realizations I was coming to as a result of examining said fears.
But it’s funny how things work themselves out.
Which is to say that I have lots of fears, still. Basic stuff, like disasters and Armageddon and such. But perhaps the deepest fear, the most personal one, is that I don’t have the reservoir that I have long assumed I have – you know, the one that says “I will write a book.”
How many people in America, at this very moment, are laboring on a book? Plenty, I’m sure. Boggles the mind.
I had been reviewing the contents of my head recently and despairing at the state of my wellspring, which 20 years (or so) ago was flowing pretty well. I suppose I always knew that my life would take this path, that the wellspring would suffer from the slings and arrows of “real” life, in which there are marriages and jobs and mortgages and children and all that other stuff that everyone’s life contains. It’s hard to pay attention to ideas that bob to the surface when you’re in the throes of living — so much so that sometimes the ideas sink to the bottom, having never bobbed up at all. And I had noticed that. That nothing was coming to me.
I’d started to believe that my “creative” years were behind me, that there were no more stories in the depths of the wellspring — that, my friends, was plenty distressing and pretty painful.
Maybe it’s a side effect of being paid to write business copy. Which I am SO not complaining about, because this is the first job I’ve ever had in which that is my entire job description. It’s a little like a dream come true. The title on my cube, under my name, is “Wordsmith” — how awesome is that? But I’d like to grow these meager hours of part-time work so that I can make my car payment with a few shekels left over, and I’ve been trying without much success to find other sources of cash.
And then it dawned on me that maybe I have all this free time on my hands to (besides the summertime mom gig) refocus on my writing.
Which then looped back on itself for the umpteenth time, regarding that pesky dried-up wellspring.
So you see where this was going. Nowhere. Crazytown.
And then I had a dream.
MLK jokes aside, I am not much of a dream-type person. I go to bed and I’m in such a deep sleep that I don’t recall my dreams. But I’ve had some recall-able dreams here lately, which is unusual for me, and while I can trace the origins for most of them, one stuck out. It sort of came out of nowhere. And I pondered it, wondering what to make of it. It seemed pretty obvious to me that it was the germ of a story, but there wasn’t enough content to see where it needed to go next.
But! Wellspring, y’all!
And then this morning on my way to my parents’ house to drop Spawn off for the day, an old story muscled its’ way into my consciousness. It’s a story that I started (YEARS ago) and then set aside because it wasn’t going anywhere. And truthfully I’m not too sure where the actual saved file resides, though I can remember details of the story and could probably recreate it pretty accurately. And a little while later I remembered the dream, and the two things sort of fit together. Not perfectly, of course, but well enough that I got pretty excited.
Just the fact that I’ve reconnected with that part of my creativity should be enough momentum to carry me forward. At least for a little ways.
Now to sit down at the typewriter and bleed.