booo-urns

i'm writing again. not coincidentally, i am anxious again.

i'm remembering, last year i kind of understood how a lot of writers went crazy and drank a lot. and that's the really good writers, the ones you've heard about. what happens to the writers that don't get famous?

at least, in reading what other writers have said about writing, i know i'm not the only neurotic one. thanks, anne lamott! i know you're crazier than i am! or so i would like to think.

but i think this is something i ought to get a handle on. not just in writing but in life too. right now i'm kind of confronting that all again, and it's mainly pissing me off. thinking in new ways? seeing things differently? why, that takes too much WORK, even if it is a better way. sigh. yet i press on. growing, even though i dig my heels in against this process a lot of the time. and yet... and yet, there are these glimpses of truth and freedom and grace that are so amazing, i am inspired to keep going. i used to see this all as a big trial, and i still do most of the time. but i am learrning to see life as an adventure also, and that makes it a little less scary. it might even be fun.

and in the words of lorelai gilmore on the trouble with stream of consciousness writing thoughts... "hockey puck, rattle snake, monkey, monkey, underpants."