O For a Life of Sensations
Indeed, I’ve been busy. I started the new job a month ago, and it’s been honestly quite awesome. There hasn’t been much in the way of writing, but I’m okay with that. I’ve found that it’s best to be realistic about these things. I had a brief moment of insanity where I thought that it might be a good idea to try and finish Watcher of the Skies in time for my daughter’s first birthday (marking two books since she was born) and then I laughed a while and poured myself another glass of wine.
I had a visit from my best friend, Karen, all the way from Arizona. And she, as usual, triggered all sorts of writerly thoughts. Karen and I met years ago on Elendor, and though we never actually managed to RP together, we struck up a deep and amazing friendship bolstered by our love of writing and shiny things and the Beatles and thrifting (among others). We get each other, and her Baggins to my Took works marvelously in the grand scheme of things (though I believe we were both Burrowses when we met). We spent last weekend together and ate good food and drank good wine, and laughed and cried and plotted. We antiqued and sat in the rain and inspired one another in a myriad different ways. It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years of friendship, through its own trials and tribulations. But to have a friend like that… it’s a magical thing. In some ways, we’re so different. But in the ways that matter, well… it’s like we don’t even need words sometimes.
This is all to say that the last month has got me thinking a great deal about writing and living. Am I a little sad that I haven’t finished my draft? Sort of. So much of my early writing career was focused so much on the writing, on the physical getting brain to paper, that it became easy to forget that I had another point to life. Sure, I cranked out lots of novels. But there’s also that other part: you know, living. I’m totally on board with the whole sacrificing stuff to write. It’s worth it. But to a point. There’s a life to live, flowers to plant, songs to sing. Forgetting to do that means that you lose out on the most important tool in any writer’s toolbox: experience.
Which once again makes me think of Keats and his life of sensations. Which makes me think that I ought to spend some time writing today.