Keep Your Hand Moving

Postcards from Google Earth — Tatara

Postcards from Google Earth by Clement Valla — Tatara

That’s one of Natalie Goldberg’s “Rules of Writing Practice” from her book, Wild Mind—to keep the hand moving. Writing. Ah, I haven’t read it as I don’t own the book still, but a friend showed the list to me before, and this is the one that I remembered the most.

I need to get back on doing our writing exercise. The other day, while in the shower, I had an idea for another collection and felt very enthusiastic about it. I started an outline in my head. When I got to my desk to write it down, I realised that I haven’t even finished with the one I have now, which I have been working on for seven years already, so what the hell was I thinking? Dejected, I dashed the idea away. But tonight it’s come back to me and I wonder if I should pursue it.

Sigh. As you may have noticed, I don’t seem to be good company here. Your past few posts have been really motivating and inspiring, whereas I seem to always be nibbling on despair. But I am trying. You see, I’ve already started to de-clutter, even if it just involved dropping a few classes. Small steps.

A friend wrote to me today and asked what it feels like to be 27. I said:

Truthfully, I don’t feel any different. I know I have crossed an invisible line, that I am moving forward and leaving some things behind, and all these years, foolishly, at every birthday I always expect it to be monumental. This time though I realise that maybe there are some important things that I will never be able to really touch or feel. They are ethereal, kind of. Perhaps intangible. And I just have to trust that it’s there, I suppose. I know that’s not really an answer. So let me say: these last few days there is always an echo in my head—”mend my life,” it says, “mend my life.” I try not to be afraid, but I am.

Poetry month starts on your birthday. I think that’s wonderful.

Is it still winter there? I saw this tweet the other day, and it made me think of you:

In the bath tonight, H said, “Water doesn’t have bones. Only in the winter.” #preschoolpoet

Good night, M.

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