My mind has been on hold for quite a while and I am not sure what's to blame but figure finger pointing isn't useful anyhow, so I'll drop it, and stew.
She's a character forming in my mind - she's been there before but this time I feel compassion - where before there was only distaste or maybe apathy. So compassion is good - at least it is a feeling, it can grow. Apathy must be the worst emotion - can it even be called an emotion? Isn't it more of a non-emotion?
Either way I am moving toward something, slowly. It's growing and that's good.
Fiction is funny - it gives you the freedom to let go - it's like a psychological release, permission to lie, but somehow I no longer feel the fictional freedom I did when I first discovered this truth. Maybe I've dissected the worm too many times and can no longer see it for it's expanding and contracting.
I'm hoping the thing that is stiffling me is stage fright...so I'm going off line. What I need to write is too close to home to put it all out there. I worry too much about the intended audience and how my work will be perceived, so I don't write. I do in journals - on scraps - on saved bits on this computer, that flashdrive, but somehow can't complete a thought.
A regrouping is necessary, because the story I have to tell is mine, and it's fiction. It scares me and it delights me - it makes me want to cry. And finally I have gotten to the place of compassion. So now I've got to write.
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