“Writing honest nonfiction is the hardest, truest thing I know to do,” wrote one of my mentors and literary heroines once.
I agree with her, but add that doing so on a regular basis, with continuity and grace, is even tougher – and truer. A printed piece is also so final. I would like to revise and rewrite, coddling my inner perfectionist, indefinitely. Never be through. I would like for everyone who read my piece in The Commons last week to know that the thoughts were but a sliver. That if I were a good, obedient blogger, there would be much more – even contradictions!
Yet what a feeling to have a piece out there that can’t be touched – not in that publication anyway. I have a few published items, articles from my internship and a radio broadcast essay from school. This is the first time an editor has sought out a creative piece and said “I want to publish this, may I?” It’s a new level, even if it was simply an opinion piece in a weekly newspaper.
Continuity has always boggled my abilities. Something decent slips out between the angst and the parched cells, yet with regularity I fall flat. If only there was a Smooth Move solution for the writer’s block, full of fennel and follow-through, ginger and gentleness, cinnamon and compassion and extract of Creativea continuous.
In the fall, I will tackle The Artist’s Way again. ‘Till then, it’s espresso and chainsaws and the occasional spurt of inspiration. I’d like to write about death and veganism soon. It’s a tough topic.