i’m reading this book by Margaret Atwood, “Negotiating with the Dead: A writer on writing.”
Its summer and I’ve had it from the library for far far too long. So much so that their letters to me have actually become rather abrupt, if you can imagine.
but it is summer, as you know, my brain collapses in on itself and I barely function as a feeder to my children. barely.
so here’s the line that gets me, that I get, that sums up my relationship between my brain, fingers and keyboard.
“…when I typed that sentence, I wasn’t myself.”
I am myself, all the time, yes, but there is something that happens when I’m writing, some otherworldly experience in which my fingers and brain move more quickly than my conscious mind. For instance, I can be surprised by what I write. I can fall into a turn of phrase that I wasn’t aware I was loving.
And yet, its me. Its all me. plus some.
the resurgence in my writing in the years post-divorce has really fostered the mustard seed within me. of faith, of personhood. there is something magical happening as my brain clicks and sputters, and i’m so glad to be part of it, and aware of it, and even now, as i sit in front of the fan and pray for fall, I’m pretty damn thrilled that I’m coming back to myself.
its not fast, this movement. no.
the space, the mist between what i am and what i deeply AM. thats where i am at when i write. Its like a good church. (a good one, a real one)
I want that for you, too. and i want more of it, for myself.
and now, a thousand questions waterfall their way into my space.
How? is there a first step? if i write more, will i lose it? What happens if i sink into the liminal space? will i be irritated by my kids all the time? can i even write at all when the kids are here? I need to spend all my time watching them because they are leaving soon, relatively. can i write THEM? probably not? can i make a plan to seek something as vague as a mist of faith and personhood? can i do anything in the summertime at all? ever? can i figure out how to repair the catscratched sofa?
the brain boings. but I want that mist. Might be a personal Fall i could carry with me through the summer, no?
love love,
mistyme.
