Perspective

Boys spark the imagination.

I mean the ones who have only recently become men. The ones who seem unaccostommed to their beards, and the squareness of their shoulders.

I used to try on the skin of their girlfriends. Of the girl who woke up, perhaps, beside that sleepy boy. Or who broke up with the tall, lean one, who always thrust his hands in his pockets. I used to look at a boy's hands, and feel his touch on some other woman's skin.

I would gauge whether he could break her heart.

These days, my vision is stronger. I see into the past, to smaller hands, reaching up. To bike-riding lessons. To playground days and sleepless nights. I see boys as their mothers see them.

From this perspective, you feel the heart break every time.

Why, Revisited

Most of my meta-writing thoughts are about how, rather than why.

Why I write seemed obvious. Because I want to; it makes me happy. Five Lies made me re-consider all that.

Five Lies (which I wrote) was part of the Ottawa Fringe Festival, hence my recent hiatus. We sold out our 35 seat venue (a pub basement) almost every night. The actors and director did an amazing job with our limited space. We got great reviews. Audiences seemed to like the thing.

Each night of our 8-night run, I stood at the back and watched. That was cool.

It just wasn't satisfying.

It wasn't satisfying, I think, because I want to write a novel. Novels have been my friends all my life. I need to produce one. Its just really, really hard. Probably because I care about it so much.

More than I cared about Five Lies.

Back to the drawing board.

Exhaustion

Its been a complex summer. Some of it was good (Bermuda, Muskoka and completely re-decorating my teen daughter's closet). Some of it was bad (won't bore you with that part).

I didn't write. Too exhilarated and empty from my play being staged in June, too tired from the bad stuff and too unsure about which of my 3 unfinished novels to dive into.

I also have a great new novel idea, but four unfinished novels seems promiscuous.

Its my birthday. I did some stock taking, registered for some courses in pleasurable things like felting and pottery. Today I get celebrated by people who love me. That's pretty great.

I was exhausted, but I'm not any more. I feel cleaner. Ready to go. Maybe exhaustion is like a good mental bleach.

I hope so, at least. I'm going with that.