Oh well...
Yesterday, I was dedicated. For ages I've be yearning to get on with some of my own writing, namely the novel, already started in my pre-own-voice days (shudder)
So...I finished up a lot of projects, tied up a bundle of loose ends and suddenly...there it was...space. Not The space as in Space, the Final Frontier but A Space where I was free to be creative without any work-related deadlines.
Space...wonderful, uplifting, full of possibility? No. Space...scary.
What did I do? I fiddled about a lot with urgent procrastination. I'll just answer that e-mail...I'll just check over that document...I'll just dust my desk...I'll just make a cup of tea...
But finally, FINALLY, I dared to look at the start of the novel - which is called Falling Awake - and it was...definitely me writing to please a putative audience, in fact... was it really me who wrote it at all or was it somebody wearing a cardigan with buttons done up tightly to the neck? Not a me I'd recognise, in any case.
Start from nothing. All there is, then, is nothing and infinite possibility.
