Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

It’s funny how although I work at this, I try, and I am writing all the time, it doesn’t feel like work. I feel like I am just being me, my days are a blend of everything I need, everything that is important to me. And this is a precious precious feeling.

Last night, I was eagerly telling Ning my latest idea for a short story and he remarked that I seem to have so much energy these days. And it’s true isn’t it? Despite not having more than five hours of sleep a night for months now, and no more than two hours at a stretch at that.

The rational, serious side of me would cite some trendy Harvard Business Review articles and say — oh because it’s really not about time management, it’s about energy management and that requires flexibility. Which is something I have in spades once I work out the baby’s naps and feeds. I get to choose what to do, mostly, and clearly I’ll always be doing something that energizes me, that I want to do.

But part of me also thinks, because writing is so much a part of me. It’s giving substance to thoughts that are running in my head all the time, giving form to all the things I see and feel, and putting together, re-arranging, composing this world in little worlds in each text. I love this.

And it is not to say that I do not enjoy work, the proper work that I have been doing. I like that too. And I am even lucky enough, I think, to be fairly good at it.

It’s a bit of a funny time now because there is so much uncertainty. I am to be interviewed, for something that has a lot of meaning for me. Not because of the rewards and prestige associated with it — those are nice things but I really believe we must learn to do without these things, even when we have it (or might have it). But because the path to here, was also a strange, difficult, magical, fortuitous one. And a part of me thinks, I was never meant to be here. If you rewind fifteen years, a decade, five years, you wouldn’t see me here, not even here at the gates. If I am in, what it means, is that everything, everything, is possible, not just for me, but for anyone with a fire, with some measure of talent within.

But there is also something I love, which I think I let slip, for so many years. And I want to give it a good shot — but it is also frightening. No maps here, no drawn-up paths you can only fall out of if you really tried to trip. There could be months, years, without anything to show for me. I might learn that I just simply don’t have the talent I think I have.

So. Life’s never easy is it?

Also, wine is the stuff of muses when it comes to writing.