The deaths this year were devastating to watch, even if my truly emotional connections to artists are with people who are luckily still very much alive. One thing I keep feeling smacked upside the head about is the need to get my writing back on track. Some of it has been taking place. It needs to be structured and refined, in many, many ways. However, after nearly a decade without writing, this was a big step for me.
I need to get the stories that are still rolling around inside me, out of me. They need to be out in the open air. Even if only a few people ever get around to reading them, they need to be told. I don't even know why. Does any artist ever know exactly why they do something? Beyond believing in nebulous, unproven concepts like being chosen by something invisible to do it, I mean.
When my mother often pointed out to me that I was drawing simple objects before I could say the words, I feel I was trying to do exactly what I have done, since then. Just get the thoughts in my head out into the world. I drew a fish on a chair before I could properly walk. Whatever my toddler brain was trying to do, it seems I'm still trying to do.
I need something to get me back into the world of writing, though. I'm so rusty, I'm surprised everyone doesn't cringe at the sound of my grinding hinges as they read my words.
No one makes it out alive. As long as there are no accidents, I've probably got a good two and a half decades to go, at minimum. That doesn't sound as long to me now as it did when I was 20. Thankfully, I am holding on to every day, month, and year with all my might.
Now, to get myself prompted into a better structure - resembling what I once had when I was much younger. Now, before it's too late.
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