What can I say? Lots. What will I say? Nothing.
For a head that runs a mile a minute, only stopping for breathe about five minutes any given day (and often not consecutively), I get nowhere.
It seems like great ideas flow in and out of my mind at a mind-boggling pace, and yet none of them stick long enough to even consider putting into effect. It may be just as well. Whenever great ideas have hung out for tea, I invariably end up in some sort of trouble.
Still, it would be nice if my head were less like a transient hotel and more like a ... Super 8?
I need to spend more time writing. If only things could come out of me in such a way as to make sense, even to me. I know that a certain amount of writing takes discipline and practice. Still, some part of me thinks writing is more like child birth. You scream, and bleed and perspire, and then bam, out comes a child. For better or worse, there it is. It isn't a draft. YOu can't erase portions of it. It is there, screaming in your arms, and you have just presented it to the world, covered in blood and ready to take a life of its own. No sending it back to be fine-tuned. No discarding it. No stuffing it back in. Of course, with that attitude, I'd figure I'd be more prolific. Or at least more productive.
Maybe to get more out of me, I should take up jogging. A friend of mine, tired of the length of her pregnancy, took up Thai food and jogging to try and urge the little bundle of joy out of her.
I guess I'm what is called the non-editing type. Funny. Every creative writing course I took, everyone always told me what a great editor I would make. (None of these comments are to reflect on my spelling, grammar or content here, as this stuff is just, you know, stuff) I was never sure whether to take that as an insult. I suppose everyone was quite thankful for insight into their writing (solicited or not...), but what about MY writing? "It's nice." That doesn't tell me anything.
That is all.