Saturday, December 6, 2008
It's a sad horrible feeling. Decorating the house, stringing lights, weaving garlands, feeling bleak inside. Losing faith in myself, my abilites, my writing, my stories. Falling falling falling down; searching for some branch to cling to, wondering if I must hit bottom; and how long it will take. Trying to focus on the next one, in moving on; but asking why? Why do it at all if I can't make anything of value, anything worth sharing? Yes I know the answer, and Bob has echoed it already this morning, "for yourself, your are writing the stories for you." Yes, but how sad that makes me today, a circle of one. I will write, for it is how I am made, but I have nothing to give. And while I never cared if anyone else appreciated my painting, they seemed complete in themselves. If I hung it on a wall and liked looking at it, it had all the meaning and value that it and I desired. But an unread story, is not complete, it is unused, unknown, it longs to tell. It can't be hung on a wall, glimpsed and grasped by passersby. Someone has to sit with it, and turn it page by page. Sit still and listen, a long time, wanting to know. Wanting to know what is contained inside. Wanting to find themselves somehow reflected there, somehow contained within these pages written by another. (I guess my stories only contain me. That though I see them as full, they lack scope and space. ) Yes I will go on writing, the stories will tell me, and I will tell the stories, but we are a world alone.