The internal workings of my creative process have started chugging an ancient engine, somewhere deep down in the back of my belly. It’s such an old and forgotten room in the house of me, that the accumulated muck of ages is still dampening the sound of its voice. But, I am aware of a muted whisper.
I ended the day, yesterday, with exclamations of my awesome creativity, and a fist pump over finally freeing up and openly writing magic into the draft manuscript of my current novel-in-progress. Here is a note I pinned to one of the scenes:
Stop being so fucking mysterious, Sondra. Just write the damn magic.
I freaked out this morning over my toast: I’m too loud, too much, too weird. What about that person who responded to a comment I posted on a YouTube video, “Are you high?” And, I was devastated. No, I’m not high, this is me. I am exuberant. I use six adverbs and four adjectives in one sentence to try to share my boundless love and raw excitement. I really do see the good in the world, all the time. So, maybe that does relegate me to your realm of what is crazy.
It’s taken forty years, but I’m hearing voices now, and I plan to pay attention. To me, that is cause for celebration and a few more descriptive phrases.
The alarm was back on this morning. My lymph system celebrated our return to the yoga mat with a nauseous hooray once I was again vertical and heading for the shower. Like I said, the accumulated muck of ages is shifting. Body, mind, and spirit.
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