This is the third time I’ve started writing this. Initially,
I had intended to write about making mead, got two pages in and decided it
wasn’t right. Then I started down a different path about secrets. Another couple
pages, another abandoned effort. Neither of them resonated. But of them created
a great deal of internal resistance.
There’s been a lot of that this year. By yearend, I’ll have
posted only three stories, two poems and eight essays. What you haven’t seen
are the five other poems I’ve worked on, and the layout for a novel including the
first three chapters. All of them in progress, all of them gone dormant to
where I hope I can pick them up again one day.
But none of that helps me now. I had wanted to finish out
the year with another memory, a final snapshot from my life. Something I could
use to wrap the year up with some sense of poignancy. I had hoped at least a
handful of this year’s essays might serve as a light against someone else’s
darkness, an acknowledgement of their pain even as I relate my own. I’m no
longer sure that’s true.
Normally, I’d take the opportunity to look forward to what
the next year might bring. Problem is, at this point, I’m no longer certain
what that might be.
A couple weeks ago, after events had finally settled down
enough to no longer require my day-to-day attention, I sat down to decide what
I wanted to do. A very small voice told me I was only happy when I write, when I
explore some imaginary terrain of my own design.
I took that voice to heart. I sketched out and started a new
short story. I jotted down the inspiration for a poem. But soon after, for the
second time since the summer solstice message, the spotlight from a guard tower
across the river panned along our shadowed shore. The chatter of gunfire echoed
in the darkness. And we all scurried back to our foxholes.
Where I finally awakened a week later curled up next to
Nyala, each of us taking comfort from the other’s warmth. My constant companion
and my tenuous link to sanity.
Last week, a friend asked me whether I enjoy the writing
process. I had to think long and hard before I answered. I enjoy the feeling I
get once a piece is created. I enjoy world building and plotting out a story. I
enjoy weaving small, strange bits of my experiences into the characters and
descriptions to make an imaginary world seem more real. Sometimes I enjoy the
act of writing itself. Sometimes it is very frustrating.
Writing is a creative enterprise that consumes a great deal
of my energy. My creative spirit is like a small, shy child. When someone waves
a torch in front of her, she retreats and hides. It takes a long time for her
to feel safe enough to re-emerge from her sanctuary. A long, frustrating,
no-way-to-short-circuit-it, unproductive time. Yet, eventually, she always has.
So as I wait, we’ll light the candles come solstice night and
see where their scant light leads us next. This year, as every year, I hope
your solstice, too, shines warm and bright.
