i am not sure if it's just due to the constant distractions of a practical world or the increasing disappointment that the visions and textures of toni morrison and mary oliver have never found their way into my prose.
either way, it's been frustrating these past weeks to feel the pressure of a story i want to share fighting with the rusty machine of diction and prose. even when i strove for standards i have yet to meet, at least my work was once fueled by a clear sense of a target and by an ease in striving for it. the pressure that comes with a fully fledged idea was an aid, a sense of direction, a purpose. but these days it just seems to be an uncomfortable source of friction.
damn, it sucks to start over.
might be why i am avoiding picking up running again. before injuries and car accidents, the miles used to fly by. never with any significant speed really, but with an effortlessness that was satisfying in itself. an effortlessness that wasn't a gift or a privilege, but earned by the slow and steady miles from before.
guess i had better get back to storytelling.
No comments:
Post a Comment