I’m not too proud of the last day’s effort. I’ve also not been in the mood. Early on I would muddled through, but these past many weeks I’ve given up, given in, or plain not given a shit. I’ve moved on.
Not altogether. Not for good. Just at that time I’ve moved on. A variety of uninteresting things conspired lately to make that easier for me. I let them.
The first object I meant to paint with words here goes untouched. Not a post, not a sentence, not an allusion, not a word exists to suggest I ever held the idea. I keep the object hidden from view uninked untyped so I don’t mar the object and so that you don’t read my marring.
Protecting the object makes sense. Leaving it unintroduced allows me to write it when I finally feel up to the task. Till when I finally feel good enough to paint it well with the words of an experienced writer. Except one thousand days never meant to be about safety or keeping any topic untouched. What I’m doing here meant to uncork a new bottle of interesting each day, swig it down, then move on. Why would one vintage remain unopened for so long?
Some topics reside in my thoughts as hybrids between feelings and pictures. A picture I can translate into a scene. Same with a snip of dialogue. Or even a name. These hybrids—there are more than the one at hand—trip me up because they are potent seeds. Special seeds unlimited to a single plant. Seeds meant to grow a whole forest or glade or garden or patch, but not just one simple thing. I’d rather not waste them.
Which is dumb.
I’m wasting them now by hording them.
But I’m wasting quite a few. Each one of the half-stories, scenes, or paragraphs here that trail off after a flourish of writing are the same as these hybrids. They just got further along before I recognized their potential and shutdown to protect them from my stubby clumsy words.
Lately and long ago I read that writing is about taking risks. I don’t know what that means. Using big words? Using strange tenses? Atypical persons? Risque topics? Swear words when you know you Mom is reading? Writing humor when you know you’re not funny? Romance when you’re satisfied? Writing about one thing instead of one thousand?
I’ll drag these precious hybrids into the light. Tear them up or tear them down. Maybe that’s a risk. Maybe it’ll be worth taking.