Emotions are running high today.
I'm frustrated with the memoir, which doesn't seem to know what shape it wants to take, frustrated with writing in general. I was so inspired by the Emil Ferris quote I posted yesterday, but it's hard to be ferocious when you don't know what direction to take.
Remove yourself from the critic's mentality. Ask the inner editor to step away, please? Just step back. We appreciate your services but they are not needed here.
I want my book to seem mythical. Who does this well? Toni Morrison, definitely. Margaret Atwood. Steinbeck. Study them more closely, I suppose. I'm fine with taking my time if it means I can elevate my work to an art form, or something like it. But how? Am I capable of it? I can only hope that I am, and be generous, and work hard.
My mother-in-law gave me the most beautiful irises today: three blooms and a bud in a sturdy glass vase. The antique kind, with the dusty pink tips and the lavender frills. They made the office smell of anise all day. The morning sun shone through their petals and left a glassine streak of light across my desk.
They'd be fun to paint but I can't get a photo that does their beauty justice. Such is the story of my days.