I'm thinking about The Shining again.
There are so many symbolic parallels between my book and The Shining, it's uncanny. From the father, wanting to murder his family, to my schizophrenic grandmother and my own intrusive thoughts. The people searching for meaning in each tiny detail, trying to layer sense onto madness. The maze!
I don't want to ground my whole book in these similarities; the movie isn't that important to me. But it's interesting. Everywhere I look, new geysers of meaning surge forth. It's easy to get stuck investigating each one. I need to remember the importance of keeping pen to paper, regardless of whether or not I have confidence in the direction forward. Sometimes the act of writing is direction enough.
Last week Sarah recommended that I listen to Tim Ferris's podcast with writer Cheryl Strayed. I did, and I've been thinking about it ever since. About how Strayed goes on writing binges, and how Ferris commits to writing "two shitty pages each day." There are so many ways to do the work.
Funny how my thoughts--and therefore these journal entries--take on a completely different tenor when I'm removed from my usual routine. They lack depth and connection. I grasp for some--any--substitute. I quote others. I recap the day's events. I struggle to feel satisfied.
Today I'm back. Today my mind is fertile. This is the only thing I've written, aside for product copy and internal strategy documents at the agency. But it's something. And I know my time will come. All the ideas I have for blog posts, for essays, for art and books--they're waiting for me in the wings, growing richer all the while.