“The mind is like a border collie. If you don’t put it to work, it will eat the couch.” — paraphrased from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear
I have an unscratchable itch to make something. It’s like the feeling that I get in my body when it’s been too long since I’ve exercised — I’m restless, jumpy, longing for the exhalation of accumulated stress. But this feeling is in my mind. I want to make something. I want to obsess over word choices or vocal edits, push myself beyond my previous personal bests until I am a dizzy puddle on the floor.
I want it to be November already so I have a socially acceptable excuse to set aside hours a day for NaNoWriMo. Why didn’t I do it last year? Why do I need socially acceptable excuses to set aside hours a day for writing? No one is paying attention to how I live my life anyway. No one is judging whether or not I’ve struck the perfect balance between “productive” and “fun.”
Last week, I went to a book reading for Ocean Capewell’s The Most Beautiful Rot. She talked about the process of self-publishing, how she’d always thought people who wrote books were people who had their shit together until she wrote a book still while not having her shit together. All I could think about was how much I wanted to write my own book. I wanted to have a finished product in my hands, to get my weird twisted plot lines out of my head to be shared with the world. Then I remembered to be grateful for jealousy; jealousy points you in the direction of what you want.
I want to create a synth-poppy bedroom record. I want to hone my writing, get my short stories and novels from vague visions to tangible tales. I want to train my body to be a tool for me instead of something I trip over. I want; I want; I want.
I am not content to stay still. And thank God.
*I stole this post title from a Sixpence None The Richer album I loved desperately in 2002.