Ouroboros

Maybe this daily blog thing is doing something…  It’s getting slightly less daunting to sit down every evening to write.  I’m becoming slightly less obsessed with the need to write something “good” or “worthwhile” and slightly less judgmental of myself when I don’t do those things (which is good, since I haven’t written a single post I consider either of those, yet!)

But what I had hoped might happen, might actually be happening.  I don’t want to jinx it too early or anything, but… in the back of my brain I’ve been ruminating on the next scene of my Black Fire story.  Nobody freak out, I have net zero words of it written anywhere at this point.  But at least in my mind, some ideas about it are forming, it’s starting to percolate, which might be a good sign.

But I realized something.  I started Black Fire…  a VERY long time ago.  I was younger, as a person, as a writer, as a member of relationships…  I feel my writing then, my skills then, my worldview and perspective then (when I started writing Black Fire) is so far removed from who I am now that I have this weird feeling that I’m writing this snaking, endless epoch that began in some other era and the tail barely fits the head anymore…

And I’m disturbed by this, but daunted by my ridiculous perfectionistic need to go back and rewrite it all from the beginning to make it all “match” which of course would result in the opposite (the tail becoming the “old me” while the head evolved) and…  I imagine myself becoming some kind of writing ouroboros.

Then I just feel tired and I wonder why I am cursed with a compulsion to write at all.

And then I feel sad.

Life.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Like