As I
don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I am not making the same one again this
year. I am not promising to write more. I do not resolve to clear my mind and
let the Muse do her thing; I will not try harder to be creative and I do not
promise to finish any of the projects that have sat half done for the past xxx
years.
Xxx years? Really? Augh. And I call myself a
writer?
Well,
yeah. I do. I just don’t call myself a prolific one.
In
keeping with my ritual of non-resolution, I don’t plan to change my status and
become more prolific. I haven’t spent any time perusing incomplete stories with
an eye to changing their status, either. Yet one has begun to resume forward
motion. I had stalled, as usual, when my head got, well, ahead of me ... and
the quote above this post came at the best possible time.
Now I
have something new to practice: cultivating no mind. Thinking is okay, but
doing too much of it is not my friend. It’s not conducive to art of any ilk. Or
to life, when it comes to that. How often do you change your mind before
choosing something at random off a menu? How many playlists do you agonize over
before picking one just to make it stop? Do you ever wear what you planned to
wear? I admit to a perverse pleasure in anticipating my drink for Thursday cafe
with wee sis and boy sister, but even then, I’ve been known to toss my plan out
the window when I get to the counter. (Okay, that’s mostly to throw the
barista, who prides himself on knowing his customers’ “usual”.)
One week into the new year and my non-resolution is already in danger of being broken.
The story I mentioned is almost done. Once I gave it some serious attention
(not thought), it started to write itself and now I know how it ends. I just
have to write myself there.
Never
mind.
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