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.
--------------------------------
ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
--------------------------------
Since the summer solstice, I’ve pulled back on my day-to-day online presence. While I have continued to writing essays about my experiences and what I felt, I’ve done so out of a sense of personal obligation to a goal. Commerce (Samhain 2015) may be the last true essay I write.
I recently read an enlightening book called Poor Economics. In one chapter, the authors discuss the development cycles of one-person small businesses. There are two curves that describe their evolution. The first is asymptotic, initially yielding solid returns for each investment of capital (time, energy and money). Over time, it approaches a natural plateau where additional investments yield fewer and fewer returns as the business fills its niche.
The return on investment represented by the second curve remains at zero for a very long time. But once that initial capital investment has been made, a second, higher plateau forms well about the first. This represents the business expanding beyond its initial local niche as it achieves regional, national or global influence. Each stage requires significantly more capital investment before the first gains are seen.
The trickiest part of expanding an operation comes at the intersection of those two curves. That’s where the entrepreneur has to decide whether it’s worth additional investment and increased risk for the chance at greater returns. The problem is, like most things in life, there is no guarantee the strategy will succeed. In fact, overextending too soon or without enough support is one of the many places small endeavors fail.
That’s the point where I find myself. I can either keep doing the same thing, pouring in more and more investment for smaller and smaller returns, or dump in a huge up front energy for the chance at a much greater reward with no guarantees.
We’ll see what the next year brings.
Bit exciting, though, don't you think? If this last year has taught me something, it's that there is power in jumping off a cliff that's crumbling out from under you anyway. The end result might be the same, but the way you get there is definitely not. And you might just make it somewhere else besides the bottom.
DeleteA great point of view. For a few moments anyway, we'll all fly and be free.
DeletePicture Note:
ReplyDeleteThis picture of the oil lamp is from Solstice night in 2007. It was taken with my original digital camera, an Olympus C720UZ point and shoot. My Pentax would arrive about a week later. The Olympus did not like low light conditions, so the image was very noisy. I spent a fair amount of time with this image cleaning up the noise before cropping it a tiny bit. We have four of these oil lamps hanging around the house. They are great to have on Solstice night, as we can be certain that the cats will not knock them over.