The act of creation


Spring seems to have arrived in full force, with beautiful, clear weather and temperatures in the 60s and even 70s. Outside, the Japanese plums have started to blossom, with pink petals flying everywhere in the afternoon breeze. Seattle has emerged fully from winter grey, and suddenly everything is supersaturated with color and sunlight.

Springtime also means flowers, of course!

[Anne Marie hyacinth]

Inside, things are a more confused, as I’m bubbling with creative energy but finding myself completely unable to focus. Each time I sit down and try to make something happen, it’s like there are a hundred paths to take and no way to tell which of them might be fruitful. So inevitably, when the dust clears, I’ve gotten nothing accomplished at all.

A couple days ago, feeling frustrated, I went back and read some entries from November 2002, during the last NaNoWriMo I was halfway successful at; amazingly, though I complained just as loudly then about my inability to write, I sure seemed able to churn out some fairly entertaining bits. But then, I had a clear focus & my eyes on the prize.

So! Clearly I need to set a goal and work towards it. To that end, I’m making it my immediate target to complete three short scenes of fiction (like these), before I even think about doing anything else.

If you want to suggest a topic in comments for me to write about, I’m open to that too — definitely made for fun inspiration once upon a time, too. Won’t promise to use them, but I’ll try!

Springtime always makes me think of Hopkins:

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
  It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
  And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
  There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

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  • mary

    oh. i love me some hopkins. this is a good one. he's wonderful.

  • Lori Pierce

    Hooray! (no pressure) I was hoping you would write again. (no pressure) I can't wait. (no pressure)

    Love you!

  • Lovely. It spent most of last week being around 30F. I'd be happy to arrange a trade.

  • Vanlal

    Snow?! I could use some of that. It's 30C here.

  • chaos

    Damn you and your spring. We're still waiting for temperatures to be in the fifties or so, and for it to stop snowing.

    And maybe one of these days I'll actually make a typekey password that I remember.

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