Working on the follow-through.

I’m currently listening to a woodwind quartet play “Don’t Stop Believin’” and it’s possibly one of the most bizarre two minutes of my entire life. Strike that. Based on the warming up I hear right now, they are about to play “The Final Countdown.”

So. It’s after Thanksgiving. My sugary haze of gratitude is beginning to clear a bit as I knuckle down and get to the realities and the day to day tasks of Moving Forward.

Come to think of it, maybe this bizarre little out of tune quartet soundtrack is just right for what I’m currently going through (“Sweet Caroline,” by the way.).

I am trying to work on getting serious about writing. I haven’t done any writing other than the occasional blog lately. Or, I guess, for the past five years. Once upon a time, I actually wrote things. I used to write poems and short stories. Somewhere along the way, I got the message that I couldn’t do it. Or that it wasn’t important. Or that I wasn’t actually that good at it, anyway.

Little by little, I’ve been trying to rework my internal landscape. At some point, some unauthorized events transpired in there. Streams were filled in, mountains were leveled, and trees were chopped to the bare earth.

A few months ago, I picked up my copy of Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life. Shortly after that, I checked out Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird from my local library. Six weeks ago, I started a creative writing class. The class has now concluded, but after my brief research about the craft of writing and myself as a writer, I have learned the following essential information:

I can actually write.

And so today, I am sitting in Barnes and Noble with the goal of practicing my craft. I am fortunate enough to have reconnected with one my old teachers from middle school through the aforementioned class, and we are here for a writing date. Hopefully it’s just the first of many.

Hopefully, for once, I can keep it up.

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1 Comment

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One response to “Working on the follow-through.

  1. “Don’t Stop Believing” seems to be the scene of many bouts of confusion. I was present to Indigenous Amazon Indians who learned the lyrics from a medical student who brought his IPOD on a restricted field mission.

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