writing. me

no really.
7 pages, with dialogue and everything. Two scenes fairly fully seen.
Oh, well yes, there is that, the fact that they weren't from Echo but from Fresh Oranges. I haven't worked on Fresh Oranges in many months. Which was/is intentional, as I am supposed to focus on Echo till it is done. Rather than forever flitting about from one thing to the next, never finishing anything. The scenes aren't new, I have written them before, but some new insight came to me this morning (why? I have no idea, as it had nothing to do with what I was thinking just before I thought of it), that makes things make more sense, so I can see motivations, actions, and scenes much clearer. A small piece that holds the puzzle together; that solved problems I was having, and gave me necessary transitions. So I sat and watched how this new insight flowed through the story, and wrote down what I saw. It is so cool how this one thing in this one scene helped me to flow into and see other scenes more clearly.

I would tell you what it was, but I like my ideas, yes I admit it (not all, but), I find some of them wistful and pretty, though they seem to cluster around things that I find hard, that make me sad (like loss, and death). It is my ability to write them, with any sort of competency, to share them in a way that they come across with feeling, meaning, et cetera, that is what I don't have faith in. So it is my fear, that others will take my ideas, (or just have similar ideas of their own), and do it so much better than I ever could. I am sure others have their own ideas and don't actually have any interest in mine. But I still have the fear, so I wont share story details. Even though, this post would make more sense and be more interesting to read, if I did. And I wont try and remove the fear from myself. I like it, for it is good for a person who is forever plagued by self doubts, to find something to feel of value, in something they are trying to do, and to huddle around and try to protect it. Plus, why else bother trying to write, and struggle through the areas where I know I lack strength (when I know there are others who are strong), if I don't believe there is reason, if I don't believe the ideas deserve better, deserve the struggle, are worth the time and effort to be brought forth on page. I have to believe in some part of what I am doing. That said, I will also admit, those ideas that I have, that I am quite fond of, I don't actually think of myself, they float by on the wind and I see and hear them. They come to me, not from me.

Maybe it is a smallness in me, surely the result of insecurities, that I choose to believe in the value of my ideas. I imagine a great painter, deft, full of skill and precision, who has no vision, his heart -mind-soul, empty, no ideas to paint. He can paint greatly, but without ideas creates no great works. I on page, (actually on canvas I do struggle with vision), on paper, have ideas, I lack the skills to realize them, but having the ideas gives me hope, that I have something to offer, that even I, who don't know how to use the tools, that even I am to write; too. Along with those who have it mastered. While I struggle to gain skill, I take mean comfort in knowing that somewhere in the world, some very talented person struggles for ideas. And I hold mine close, for they are all that I have, to hope on, to dream on, to believe in. To keep me walking toward my goal, through my fear. Thinking this way, makes me feel better about my silly ambitions, about wanting to be a writer. Whenever I say "Why bother? I suck. Why do I think I should, I can, be a writer?". I can always respond "why do the ideas come? Why do they come to me if I am not supposed to learn how to write them?". Like those books I have read, and movies I have seen, where the unlikely person is chosen (not the smartest, fastest, prettiest), for something of value, and they have to rise to the occasion, become something more than they thought they could be. Yeah, I like to think of it like that. What is more, I think I need to think of it like that.

okay, Bob's birthday today, and he is sitting beside me now, watching TV, and talking, so I can't focus, and today is to be his, so no complaining from me is allowed.

by the by, those are tangelos, not oranges
And I am not fully comfortable with admiting this, these negative aspects of my personality (both petty and over reaching in their attempts). But it is part of my writing struggle, so I do share it.