"I'm not on fire, but I'm not burned out. Just somewhere different now." -Girlyman.
I'm in a different place than I was a year ago, and somehow it feels the same. On my own, starting over and feeling like this place I'm in is not one where anyone can really reach me. I've got to get my bearings, adjust to the surroundings and push on to the other side. Not easy, but perhaps I am up for the challenge.
The writing helps. It gives me an outlet, something to focus on, a goal and maybe a little peace. I started writing again to deal with my grief, to try to understand my place in this world without my dad. Then I branched out, started telling the stories of my life (as interesting or boring as they may be). I had a place where I could spout my ridiculous theories about the Academy Awards, go on about the wonder that was Audrey Hepburn and expose my mother for the delightfully wacky little old lady she is. Better to have it all down somewhere than have the wheels turning all day and night, right? Sometimes the stories make sense. Sometimes the stories only make sense to me. No matter, no one is really reading this thing, right?
The thing that worries me now is how everything will fit together. How will I tell the story I am supposed to be telling? What is the story? There are actually multiple stories. I've already told one, Spell. I managed to write a series of poems out of order and put them together in a way that made some sense. And it's a love story of sorts. And I've been sitting on it for over ten years. Yeah, I should do something about that soon.
So, what's the next chapter? The story of my childhood? How I came to be in this place at this time? My experience with losing a parent? It's obvious to me now that I have something to say, a lot of something. How do I do it? That's what I need to figure out. Now. It's time.