I don’t know about you but I don’t have enough storage space here to create as much order as I would like. Or maybe I just have too much stuff! Sometimes I imagine in my mind’s eye a meadow of sweet grass where a circle is mown in the middle and blankets are spread out so I can lie on them and look at the clouds in the sky, moving along in balloon animal shapes or some such.
In the midst of these ruminations as I sort through books on the shelves are the seeds of ideas to write something cohesive and on its own (in addition to the little essays on this blog.) I have a feeling inside that this inchoate form is still moving around in pieces and when it reaches a critical mass, I will sit down and the whole thing will just come out, similar to the now mythic description of Jack Kerouac typing his manifesto, “On the Road” on a never ending manuscript inserted into his manual typewriter. Where do we pick up these kinds of idealistic fantasies about writing?
On the shelves are writing books: writer memoirs, how-tos, lectures, guides, self-help, whatever. None of them do what’s really needed, which is to motivate me to just sit down and write “it.”
In the meantime, my goal today is to clean out the boxes in the room with the orchid plants on the shelf and to put away the winter bedding on top of the shelves in the bedroom. Mundane accomplishments to be sure, but at least visually noticeable progress, unlike the glacial creative process going on inside myself.