“Sometimes fiction is a way of coping with the poison of the world in a way that lets us survive it.” ~ Neil Gaiman
Before my body turned its back (and shoulder and hip and gut…) against me, the strongest weapons in my coping-with-the-horrors-of-our-world arsenal were running and dancing. After I lost running and my dancing had to slow down… I coped through writing fiction… Then my mind was too exhausted to spend hours writing stories every day, so I found release in poetry.
I can create a short poem from beginning to end in my head. Stories, especially the long ones, don’t work that way for me. I need to see the words being born, feel the characters working with me (and sometimes fighting me) before I can know what the tale is all about. If by the time I’m done writing I can’t tell what (and why) I’m writing, I get little to no pleasure out of the process. And yes, not knowing the whats and whys robs me of all those delicious coping points.
Today, I’m happy and then some. After months and months of being able to do no more than a little editing and rewriting here and there, I can finally go back to working on longer projects. If that wasn’t enough to make me grin until the universe’s eyeballs can see every single one of my teeth, in a couple of weeks I get to start attempting to run again—nothing too wild, just thirty seconds of jogging every few minutes to see how my gut and balance deal with it… wee steps.
The collection of short stories and novellas I wish to publish this autumn is priority. But it’s super yummy to know that I can dedicate an hour or three to novel writing as well. I’m thrilled to know that the storm of desire to create, to reshape, and to share the stories that brew inside my head will, again, get a chance to see the light… and the dark, of course. 😉