I often write short autobiographical pieces. It seems to be easy, but to expand them into a novel or something equally as long seems to be difficult; it would require a change in my routine that so far I haven’t been able to make. I have many examples of unfinished projects, chapters and parts of chapters, saved in boxes and on my hard drive. I always aim to get back to them. “As soon as I can,” is what I tell myself. Yet I write something every day, thinking the practice will pay off in the long run. It is a deliberate effort I sustain even after I’ve run out things to write about. Begin: that’s what’s important. It’s important to keep my brain active. Write, write, I can really do it.
But why is it so important? Once I get past the initial impulse of writing I try to go inside myself. Feelings about this or that are there but it often takes more time than I am willing to spend for them to come out. I look at events and try to concentrate on bits of action but I can’t seem to get away from telling too much. I need to concentrate on one single thing and allow what’s going to come out to come out even if it’s raw and less than perfect. It comes down to making a choice. And even then it has to fit within the context of something larger. But then when the effort has been less than satisfactory, there is always the temptation to stop and hide. (You can’t hide on the Internet.) To keep going is a struggle. It would be easily to toss it all into a pile of unfinished projects.
It is okay…once I allow myself to think that…it really is okay. I can only do what I can do with what I have…even for someone who has come a long way but still has a long way to go…that is because I’m not satisfied…is where I am right now…today. And tomorrow?