actually writing again
The book.
Ah, the Book.
It's actually getting written, and I shouldn't be surprised by that, but I am.
It always seemed like something I was simply striving toward, working through, playing with, playing in. It wasn't a thing, fully defined, unshakeable. No, I molded, twisted, excised constantly. I was never satisfied. I'm not sure I am even now. But I was never comfortable with that.
The Book started out as a cry for help. I needed something, and I was writing to fill that void. Emotions drove the plot, the developments, the characters. The question was forever 'is this what I need?'
And I got stuck, because what I needed was never constant. I am mutable, and so are my needs. So I found myself running into dead ends, following a passion to only have it run out of gas. And that was exquisitely frustrating.
What on earth did I need? And why was it so hard to articulate?
Needs are complex things, and I am wading through an incredibly complicated part of my life. This was never going to be easy. I just wasn't aware of what that truly meant. And it's necessary that I leave myself ample space to figure that out.
So, the Book is no longer what I need. It's delightful that I've been able to write, to have my words actually flow out like I wanted them too, to express my characters in ways that feel more genuine and grounded. But I no longer care if it's speaking to a need I have buried deep within my soul. It might be in the end, but that's future me's business.
All present me has to do now is write the thing, and I'm satisfied with that task.
~nan