Sifting and Sorting: Again + Again
So much of writing a book, for me, was not in the writing itself.
I do not believe in "writer's block" and certainly do not think there is a finite amount of creativity available to an artist.
We are limitless and infinitely creative--all limitations are self-imposed in this field.
In my opinion.
Tell yourself whatever you'd like to believe.
I'll be busy publishing more books until the day I die.
Suffice to say, I'm not trying to be an arrogant dickhead of a writer--just openly being the driven, ambitious, and goal oriented path plodding typecast Capriaquaruis I am.
I have been writing most every single day since the second grade.
I have no shortage of ideas for essays, blog posts, and books.
I have hundreds and thousands of pages handwritten and scattered among several computers, many hard drives, flash drives, word documents, notepad documents, OneNote documents, and even more printed manuscripts from my college days delving into advanced creative nonfiction.
For me, I have never had the problem of being infinitely creative.
As my former boss, mentor, MBA, and total badass female entrepreneur pegged me perfectly at age twenty, I truly do show many tendencies of being a true ENFP personality type.
I am pretty consistenly enthusasitc AF, energetic, and creative.
What I was missing was a damn backbone--a spine, skeleton, and structure to hang all these interweaving organs and systems and intricacies together!
To create a body of work was no less intricate and incredible than the creation of life itself: little babies growing inside their mothers, the ebb and flow of prolific nature, the weather, our bodies, the cosmos.
The patterns already playing out are quite inexplicably gorgeous, no?
Music and art and writing is not all that original, when you boil it down.
That, and, can be totally illusionary.
Oh and yes, for
Somebody Going Somewhere:
Illusion is the whole theme.
Walking into a waking state of a dream life, an imagined ideal thought of for so long it was a crushing blow of Godly and spiritual ephisphanies that one after the next after the next imagined traits were indeed displayed: this really was my soulmate, this really was my wildest dream: this was undoubtedly the greatest love I'd always imagined.
But even since the age of twelve I highly doubted I would ever choose that dream, that fantasy, that ILLUSION, over what was right in front of my face the whole time: the stuff of life that REALLY mattered.
My parents who had given me ever thing, the family who not only loved me, but it seemed: needed me too.
To all my friends and to all my people I was proud of—to LeBron James and THE Ohio State Buckeyes… there was no place to go.
There was no other place to be than right where I was.
The climax of the book is relatively lame.
This whole book has action but most of the transformation, as happens in reality, is really the inner work, the inner internalization and integrating of all these thoughts, ideas, events, etc.
Writing all these books simultaneously.
It's okay, and in fact, ideal.
Scarlet
Penelope
and
Dahlia
They are all me, but they are not!
They are fictitious, and I adore them.
They can unabashedly be both the best and worst attributes of me, and are Masks! Caricatures!
Keep Reading!
