I’m struggling with what to write at the moment. It’s currently 10:09 PM on a Tuesday night as I work on this, and I told my husband about an hour ago that I hoped I wouldn’t be too long. But between a late snack (necessary due to a skipped supper), an update for Microsoft Word on my iMac, the hunt for the perfect playlist, and, oh yes – a blog post and, well.
Here I am.
In regards to Monday’s post:
It’s not that I think I shouldn’t write at all. No, I know part of my wiring includes writing. It took me awhile to get that all sorted out, but I did and now it’s settled and that’s that.
But I wonder what I am to write.
I enjoy blogging. I like the practice, the routine it gives me. It’s not all I want to write, however. For I really enjoy fiction. I’m crap at finishing anything outside of National Novel Writing Month, mind you. But I so enjoy a well-told story and I want to pen my own well-told stories.
But so often I feel that is a wasteful thing to want to do.
So I question the validity of the desire. I squash it down, tuck it away, and focus on More Important Things.
Yet I wonder . . . what if I worked on a story until it was done? It wouldn’t have to be great, just done? What would that look like? Feel like? Could I tell a good story, a complete story? Could it be polished into something great, however that may look (for what may be great for me may not be great for someone else and vice-versa)?
As I ponder that, I’ll listen to Singing Stone by Rhett Walker Band a few more times. It helps get me in a ‘good’ contemplative mood:
Photo Credit: Peer Lawther ©2011 (Flickr via Creative Commons)