I haven't written anything in almost 3 months.
Well, unless you count a few journal entries, the occasional email,
three and a half pages of the first chapter of a Young Adult novel,
and a short essay I had to submit as part of applying to the
Independent Publishing Resource Center. (Those things don't count,
but I still seem to be counting them, don't I?)
What I have been doing is reading a lot.
One of several books I've read during my writing hiatus -- Cheryl
Strayed's Wild, which is the author's account of hiking 1,100
miles along the Pacific Crest Trail (what a coinkydink: I hiked
1,100 miles of the PCT, too!) -- led me back into my old journals.
What's striking to me is how many freakin' times I've come to the
same conclusions about myself, and how, each time, as I'm recording
the latest epiphany, it seems like new news to me.
Here's something from an undated entry (January 2010?) in a little
red book:
"I want to say it, and have it feel right. That's what it is
about writing: righting. Not wrongs or injustices. Just finding the
balance, not capsizing in the waves of circumstance."
