I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I want my life to be. This isn’t new. It’s a daily exercise. I pour my first cup of coffee, sit down at my desk with my journal, and picture it. And it is always Me. Writing. Basically dreaming of doing exactly what I’m already doing. Except when I envision it, this writing is done without pressure, except my own, or obligation. I’m free to create. I take words for a hike and they show me the way. I am often in a cabin on the side of a mountain overlooking a lake, and there might be snow and/or autumn leaves and there is definitely fleece. Am I writing fiction? Fact? Doesn’t matter. I’m telling stories. I’m bringing worlds to life.
Writing is what I’ve wanted to do for as long as I have memories. I’ve often wondered why I love it. I’ve read authors who profess their own obsession, looking for the why, and I’ve finally realized that the why doesn’t matter. My reason doesn’t have to be noble or life altering. It doesn’t need to fulfill a purpose. It simply is. I love writing. When I give my consciousness, sub, semi, or completely aware, freedom to run, it’s as if I’ve unleashed a dog near a pile of leaves.
There is something magical about stringing twenty-six letters with spaces and a finite number of punctuation symbols together and creating a reality. It’s a never-ending challenge. I will never be a perfect writer. I will never tell the perfect tale. I can always try to improve.
Is that it? Is that why I love it so? Writing is not about perfection. It is only about trying to communicate better, with every letter. The trick is knowing that measuring improvement is not a direct line of ascension. There are a lot of false starts along the way, and while one day may seem a triumph of creativity, the next could be an abysmal ode to the banal. The important thing is to keep writing, day after day after day.
Today’s wig is a mop of unruliness with a bedrock base. It’s a dichotomy. It’s unrestrained creativity anchored by a foundation of rules. It’s creative prose with a solid grammatical base. I paired it with a simple black dress and flamboyant jewelry, because who wouldn’t want to continue that metaphor?
Jim. Jim, that’s who. This rebel decided he’s a football star who’s intimidating his opposition, going for the goal, and then flaunting it.
In the Goodrich house, creative license is the rule, not the exception.