The Point Is This :

I've been writing the past months. The writer's studio has been a positive influence. The team of writers from all sorts of background were lovely and talented, and we were full of validation and support for each other's work. It was like AA for writers. Writers Anonymous. No one shamed you for anything. Even the lady who was often off-topic, received rave reviews on each exercise by the tutor. I felt more than empowered and truly believed that I was in the territories of untapped talent within me, so much so I went from wanting to just reawaken my old desires to write short stories to actually toying with the idea of writing a full manuscript. With that sort of naivety/ motivation, I could have actually gone on and written one. I was on a roll, or, in the element with the best kind of people propelling my ego. When my time with the studio ended, reality surfaced. The motivators went silent and soon, the link to the group did a 404 on me. I have to say, I felt a little dejected and abandoned. I didn't wean off gently. The magic rug was pulled off abruptly from under my feet, and I felt myself falling. 

The reality is that writers must write daily. It's a lonely journey, I imagine it's like a caterpillar in its pupal stages where it breaks down and re-edits itself into a new being - emerging as an exciting shape, free from its previous, bundled-off form suspended in one place. That's hard, isn't it? I can't actually speak for a caterpillar at that stage but I can relate to the rite of passage it undergoes to come out on the other side. 

I decided to sit in my discomfort like a caterpillar. The difference was, unlike a caterpillar which is programmed for the phase, I had a double-edged sword called free will at my disposal. Soon I was plotting my escape, and to be fair, I have a few legit talents to turn to - crocheting, making elaborate food and desserts, painting, creating beautiful things, getting sucked into endless hours of reels, daydreaming. So many distractions to kill the goal but writing with consistency is really just about stewing in your own soup. I wondered if the caterpillars felt anything at all in that cocoon stage. If they were dying to to get out of the way that turned them into butterflies. Would they proceed with the process if they had a choice? 

Because of free will, I had a choice. And writing was/ is worth fighting for. During the intensive four weeks at the studio, I discovered that despite my multi talents, I felt most authentic when I was writing. I wasn't following a pattern, or taking inspiration from an online cook, or replicating the images of birds I've watched. Writing came from within the corners and centre of my mind and heart - feelings, experiences and imaginations spread into words the way I intended them to be. Even if they were just simple, overused words. It was okay if my phrases didn't match up to the winners of the Booker. A tough process, but I was happy inside knowing that it was all mine and original, like a caterpillar in a silken cocoon. 

In pursuit of happiness and authenticity, I now write almost daily. However long or short, and even if it is all junk - and it is usually, mostly all junk - the music must go on. But consistency at effort is still my struggle - I'm not a caterpillar. 

To keep myself moving, I'm writing towards deadlines by joining competitions targeting short stories. I like having deadlines. I think of them as literal lines that shock and kill when I touch it - which by the way, was a physical line used in the American Civil War prisons to establish boundary. Abiding by a deadline is also a discipline I've picked up from working in news rooms in another lifetime. It works for me. My writing plan is both exciting and daunting when I think about it in terms of aiming for perfection - especially when I look back on the compilation of previous winners. The inner critic, like I've recently said to my faithful blogger friend Blue, is savage, and because I'm also a crabby Cancer, I tend to want to retreat into my shell whenever I feel inadequate for the world. 

The point is this: I am in the process. I hope that someday, I will be able to break out from the cocoon into a free and independent being, ready to take flight into the literary world I've imagined for myself. 

A bag I made recently.
This one's my own pattern.