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nezukoSo originally the purpose of the morning pages was to limber up my writing muscles, get the dross out, and free me for creation for the rest of the day. I really don't know if they work. They might work like that for other people, but since I lack discipline and therefore don't do them every day, or even in the morning half the time, I really couldn't say. I guess a lot of people find them helpful. The book I stole the idea from, The Artist's Way, has certainly sold a lot of copies.
Anyway, here we go. Stream of consciousness writing, 100% topic-free, for your pleasure. Or perhaps 100% chock full-o-topics, but since none of them ever holds still long enough for you to really focus on it, it is more like a swarm than a bunch of individual bees.
Sickness happens. Speaking of swarms of bees. That's what my breathing sounds like. But I'm not going on prednisone if I can help it. I'm still grossly swollen and fat from the last time I had to take it.
You know, I pretend I'm all groovy and body-accepting, but it's really just because I gave up on the idea of being thin and pretty so long ago I had to find something else to take its place. Although every now and again I see a fat, self-confident woman and I think, "Yeah, I wanna be like her. She's not afraid to take up the space God gave her."
I also don't usually worry about my age. I mean yeah, 90% of my friends are younger than me, and yeah, I'm dating a girl who could technically be my kid, if I'd been a teen pregnancy statistic. But screw it, you're only as old as you feel, right? And I don't feel an age, I just feel myself. I certainly have a lot more in common with my friends in their 20s than most anyone I've met in their 40s.
With a few awesome exceptions. You know who you are.
So anyway age though. Like, if I stopped dying my hair (which I'm not gonna do because blue makes me happy. Why can't it just grow in blue?) it would be grey. With a big white streak right by my face. That white streak might look kind of cool. But overall, the grey? No. I don't think so. And my skin. I can see the way the skin on the backs of my hands is starting to, just barely, lose its elasticity, and it bugs me. I stare and stare at the backs of my hands, at the tiny beginnings of the crepey skin my great grandmother had.
Now don't get me wrong, I'd like to live to be my great grandmother's age, at least, but can't I do it without the whole getting old part? Eyes, too. I don't need reading glasses yet, but I have to take my glasses off to read in bed now. I never used to have to do that. I have to hold things away from my face to focus on them. Like every myopic astigmatic over 37, I'm doomed to one day need bifocals. Or multifocals. Or eye surgery. But damn, how can I be hitting that now, when I am still barely past thinking of myself as needing a pediatrician.
The lung thing, too. Boy. So this recent bout of illness has my feeling like hell, and I started thinking — could I climb Mt. Lassen? I did, once, twenty years ago. How can that be twenty years ago? But I think it was. Maybe nineteen. But it was when I first moved to California, so yeah, that's twenty years gone. It was a hell of a climb — mostly hiking up endless switchbacks, and I had altitude sickness at the top, with the worst headache of my life. But I did it. I had such an awesome sense of accomplishment, and I've pretended to myself for the last twenty years that I could do it again, no problem, since I did it once.
I'm not so sure that's true.
Maybe it doesn't matter, though. I mean, twenty years ago I certainly couldn't have written the kind of stuff I'm writing now. Maybe it's okay to leave my mountain climbing days behind, because I've gone on to do other things now. Things that more fully express and take advantage of who I am. I mean seriously, anyone who's reasonably fit can climb Mt. Lassen.
So that's the morning page. Do I feel limber and ready to go write fiction? No. I sort of want to, but I also want to go brush my teeth and take a shower, and to get myself a cup of cocoa and some toast, and watch the Food Network show I tivo'd last night. Damn. Damn damn damn. That really does sound old. Or ten. It also sounds ten. I guess I'm alright. Maybe I can average it out and split the difference.
Anyway, here we go. Stream of consciousness writing, 100% topic-free, for your pleasure. Or perhaps 100% chock full-o-topics, but since none of them ever holds still long enough for you to really focus on it, it is more like a swarm than a bunch of individual bees.
Sickness happens. Speaking of swarms of bees. That's what my breathing sounds like. But I'm not going on prednisone if I can help it. I'm still grossly swollen and fat from the last time I had to take it.
You know, I pretend I'm all groovy and body-accepting, but it's really just because I gave up on the idea of being thin and pretty so long ago I had to find something else to take its place. Although every now and again I see a fat, self-confident woman and I think, "Yeah, I wanna be like her. She's not afraid to take up the space God gave her."
I also don't usually worry about my age. I mean yeah, 90% of my friends are younger than me, and yeah, I'm dating a girl who could technically be my kid, if I'd been a teen pregnancy statistic. But screw it, you're only as old as you feel, right? And I don't feel an age, I just feel myself. I certainly have a lot more in common with my friends in their 20s than most anyone I've met in their 40s.
With a few awesome exceptions. You know who you are.
So anyway age though. Like, if I stopped dying my hair (which I'm not gonna do because blue makes me happy. Why can't it just grow in blue?) it would be grey. With a big white streak right by my face. That white streak might look kind of cool. But overall, the grey? No. I don't think so. And my skin. I can see the way the skin on the backs of my hands is starting to, just barely, lose its elasticity, and it bugs me. I stare and stare at the backs of my hands, at the tiny beginnings of the crepey skin my great grandmother had.
Now don't get me wrong, I'd like to live to be my great grandmother's age, at least, but can't I do it without the whole getting old part? Eyes, too. I don't need reading glasses yet, but I have to take my glasses off to read in bed now. I never used to have to do that. I have to hold things away from my face to focus on them. Like every myopic astigmatic over 37, I'm doomed to one day need bifocals. Or multifocals. Or eye surgery. But damn, how can I be hitting that now, when I am still barely past thinking of myself as needing a pediatrician.
The lung thing, too. Boy. So this recent bout of illness has my feeling like hell, and I started thinking — could I climb Mt. Lassen? I did, once, twenty years ago. How can that be twenty years ago? But I think it was. Maybe nineteen. But it was when I first moved to California, so yeah, that's twenty years gone. It was a hell of a climb — mostly hiking up endless switchbacks, and I had altitude sickness at the top, with the worst headache of my life. But I did it. I had such an awesome sense of accomplishment, and I've pretended to myself for the last twenty years that I could do it again, no problem, since I did it once.
I'm not so sure that's true.
Maybe it doesn't matter, though. I mean, twenty years ago I certainly couldn't have written the kind of stuff I'm writing now. Maybe it's okay to leave my mountain climbing days behind, because I've gone on to do other things now. Things that more fully express and take advantage of who I am. I mean seriously, anyone who's reasonably fit can climb Mt. Lassen.
So that's the morning page. Do I feel limber and ready to go write fiction? No. I sort of want to, but I also want to go brush my teeth and take a shower, and to get myself a cup of cocoa and some toast, and watch the Food Network show I tivo'd last night. Damn. Damn damn damn. That really does sound old. Or ten. It also sounds ten. I guess I'm alright. Maybe I can average it out and split the difference.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-07 12:28 am (UTC)If not, go into a different fandom. Or work on a different project. As much as I love writing my stories, sometimes I have to take a step back (like, for two years...) before I can feel up to writing anything again. Or else you might need to change your pace/writing style, like only writing by yourself for 4 hours or something.
*hugs*