What if this job - this linear, logic based, puzzle solving rationale requiring awesome job - what if it's the death of me? Not me. My creativity. After he'd finished lovingly installing a wicked stereo and sound system into my wee-one-room apartment, Boyfriend was treated to one of the best things in life: the sound of my voice. Sarcasm aside, I did play him a song I wrote and recorded a couple years ago. I'd been hesitating to show him, and now seemed like the time. My shaky singing was heard with remarkable clarity on such brilliant sounding speakers, and his response was as follows: Ashley, you are in the wrong job, you need to be creating.
In a way, or many ways, it's true. I daydream about staying home all day not so I can stay home all day but so I can finally map out, analyze, and extensively scribble onto paper all the ideas in my head. Character building takes time and silence and a few good years of solitude. Doesn't it?
The thoughts are always tumbling. The books in my head are being formed, albeit slowly, albeit intangibly, and the writing swirls in my brain all day. What's missing is the pen to paper, the long-thought-out written word, the spontaneously crafted sentences and the unmistakeable sound of clicking keys. They're all missing because I forget them, because I don't bother, because I am too busy sorting out the boxes and start times, or because I am at home, organizing (for the hundredth time) that pile of clothes.
Perhaps this is what Steven Pressfield was addressing in his book, "The War of Art." Resistance, that sneaky overshadow, is distracting me with housework, bill payments and overtime. My Muse, patiently intriguing, has forgiven the dust on her skirt hems (how long since I last swept my kitchen?) and only waits for me to sit down and take note of all she wants to give me. Plot lines and story arcs, forwards and chapter endings, edits and ideas. I bring her tea and she sips it, and I run around like a person who's never wanted to write.
I'm worried my intentions are all I've got.