Thursday, December 19, 2013

ficting


I had a few hours to myself this morning and finished a story which I've been working on for about five months.

Instead of letting it fester on my computer, and risk facing months of second-guessing and re-edits, I then bucked my own trend and sent it off to my devoted reader at The Sun (who has, kindly, advocated for three of my other stories).  None of them have made it. But they have all been close, and such things give me hope.

There's something radical about giving oneself over to art during this time of year. Bucking the other trend of stuff (hand-made or no) and spending time with the ethereal worlds one can craft out of words.

A radical act of...self love? Belief in one's efforts?

(Otherwise why aren't you knitting socks? Or baking cookies?)

You have to genuinely like and care about the people you're crafting.

Their existence must (somehow) seem both necessary and worthy.

Otherwise: why not make your neighbors biscuits?

Wishing you all similar moments to dive into your easy-to-dismiss callings in the moments between here and there.

x
R