Yesterday, instead of writing my usual post, I finished writing a letter to my legislative officials regarding the shooting in Las Vegas. I felt like I needed to do something useful. When something like that happens, you feel a little helpless. So even a small act like writing and sharing a letter feels helpful in some way.
And although yesterday started slowly, I did finally get back into my work and feel like I was able to be productive and mostly focused.
I finished filming my second project for my online class! I still have to edit the videos. I started editing for that project, but there’s still a good amount to complete. Today, I’ll start filming for the final project and finish editing. I had hoped this week would bring me to complete all the editing and projects for the class, but it looks like, at the least, there will be some editing required next week. And that’s okay. It’s been an emotional week. I’m just happy to be moving forward.
In other news, I’ve been looking for another creative outlet. Something entirely different from painting. I have my photography, and that’s amazing. But it often requires me to stare at a computer for hours, which hurts my eyes or requires me to have something to photograph, which I don’t always have. It’s great sometimes but isn’t great always. I need something in the evenings that helps me escape the every day of my new artist life (because even my little designed-by-me business just feels like work sometimes). And guess what? I may have stumbled on the perfect hobby.
Nearly ten years ago, I decided to write a book. I spent a year (maybe more, it’s hard to remember) writing the rough draft of a novel. By the time that year was up, I was exhausted, my life had fallen to pieces, and I found myself rather busy in an attempt to glue it back together (a story for another day). In a nutshell, I just didn’t have time for the book anymore, and I lost interest.
Fast forward to today.
While walking my dog and listening to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic, I was reminded of that book. And I got curious. How much had I actually written? What the heck was it even about? I mean, I remember the gist. But all the details have escaped me at this point. And then I got kind of excited. What if I pulled the file up and printed it all out? What if I started revising? What if it might be just a little bit good?
I now have 288 pages sitting to my left. My novel. My book. I WROTE 288 PAGES, PEOPLE.
I have no idea how to go about revising a book you don’t remember the plot line to (the last time I touched that file was in July of 2010). But I’m going to try. I guess I’ll start by reading it. And then figure it out from there.
Crazy. Fun. Kind of exciting. And it doesn’t even matter how it turns out or if it gets published or what happens. I don’t want to make a career out of writing books. I just want to enjoy the process and be open to the possibilities.
Pretty cool, friends. Pretty cool.