being hopeful and capturing something positive.
I started writing a short story yesterday. It has been burbling away for a few months, getting in the way of any poem writing, and this week was the week where I had enough time to get a first draft down. The idea for the story popped into my head, back in February, like an old memory. I instantly liked it and tinkered with how it could develop and shape over several weeks. Yesterday was the day I'd set aside to begin. I had already scribbled key points in my notebook but decided to sketch out a timeline of the plot before starting. Then to read a couple of Chekhov stories and perhaps some new prose poems from Ian Seed just to get me in the zone. Then there were the nasturtiums to sow before it was too late. Etc etc.
I'm not generally one for procrastinating. So it was an odd experience, especially as I was aware - after the Chekhov - of my aversion and kept asking myself why? It's over twenty years since I've written a short story. I didn't really expect to write another one, although they are my first love - both as reader and writer. I was aware, as I found some more plants to water, of being scared of all those words that would be needed to write the story. And how I was going to keep them taut and moving forward.
I did finally settle down and start - just as it was beginning to feel as though it was too late in the day to get anything useful down. That final threat of it not happening was probably enough to motivate me to write the first sentence and then the next. The bigger fear of it not being written.
Is it fear that motivates all my writing?
The leveret's run isn't so much haphazard as a tactic to avoid being caught by a predator. Fears that impel me to not write then to write are of failure and of responsibility or of incomprehension, respectively, (I write to work out my thinking much of the time - made obvious through this blog). Many of my past students wrote out of a fear of mortality. Then there is the fear of being invisible countered by the fear of shame or embarrassment in revelation. So it goes, until the piece is written and rewritten and the fear is forgotten in the love of language and accuracy of expression. Which is when the leveret jinks into the field and is off, away, blending into the environment, its physicality lost to muscle memory and exuberance of existence.