Friday, June 06, 2014
Heather at True Stitches wrote a post yesterday that got my attention. Greedy me, my take-away from a courageous and self revelatory post was
"...But the pleasure and solace of stitching endured, and nurtured my soul, and grew to become something where I could lose myself and find myself again."
.... losing oneself to the cloth. It's not exactly what I'm looking for but I have to find a balance for my creative energy.
Writing fiction, the way I do it anyway, will turn you into a full blown zombie.
I have to go there and be with these people, and live in their world in order to bring the words back alive. It becomes all consuming and probably not healthy.
The pleasure of tramping the park trails is not about the benefits of the physical activity. It's nice, but it's getting awful damn hot in Georgia for this Yankee. My real payoff is the fistful of notes that I come back with each time I go out, deliberately with a blank slate for a brain.
I was only half mile out on the Spur today, leaning on a railing and scribbling on a piece of paper when this Lycra clad hussy blew by me in a cloud of something eye-wateringly sweet and said over her shoulder "That's not burning any calories, hon."
All I can say is that it's a good fucking thing she wasn't on a loop to pass me coming back the other way. I'm not usually lost for words, unless I'm lost in them, otherwise I'd be writing you from the back of a patrol car.
As soon as I can, I'm going to make some order into the studio and turn my attention to the larger unfinished pieces, Blue Horse here pinned up over Fierce. For now, I'll let them watch me.
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Play it again Sam.
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