Make up a story… For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief’s wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear’s caul.
– Toni Morrison
The truth of the matter is, I am a lazy writer. I don’t want to have to work out the details as I go, I want all the answers before I begin. There’s a certain smug comfort in having all the answers before putting oneself into a perilous situation. And writing down the bones and shadows and blood and guts that lurk not-quite-deeply-enough in my soul is a committment most perilous, should I ever intend to show the strewn errata to anybody. Much less hope to have them understand what the bloody hell I was on about. Which requires time and effort to edit into shape plus a lot moar words, as I tend to write short in my first drafts. So hey, I’m also a committment-phobe. Yay me.
Just wow. I’ve been blaming pain levels, medication side effects, emotional fallout from both, and the phase of the moon on my frustration lately.