The classic combination of a chai tea and the promise of a new blog post. I love this feeling. The possibilities, the inspiration. Or maybe, more accurately, the want of inspiration. The creativity that comes when you begin to write.
I only have one assignment left and then I’ll be free of trimester one, and maybe I’ll have the energy to write a new story because that’s really what I want most, isn’t it? To write a novel.
A few days ago I was rereading the novel I wrote three years ago, and then the novella (around 14,000 words) I wrote two years ago, and I thought I’d be embarrassed but I actually really enjoyed going through them. At the time I was reading parts of them every single day, rewriting and editing, and while I was proud of myself I didn’t think they were good. Or, I was happy with them, but I knew they’d never be published and I knew I’d never show anyone. Or, there was hope that one day I would but I also grew tired of reading the same thing over and over so I no longer knew if what I was writing meant something. I thought they were good, but in a way that keeps you second guessing and keeps you hiding.
But in rereading it… maybe they aren’t that bad. Sure, there’ll need to be revisions of some kind, and if I ever wanted to try publishing the novella it would need more words. But I would love to try. Because I think there’s something in them that could be something. Maybe parts of them are those weird wistful parts of me that shouldn’t see the light of day. Maybe parts of them are unrealistic, and I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I have this feeling about them, and it’s the feeling I had when I was writing them, too. It’s back, and I’m excited, and I want to work on them. Maybe more than edit, maybe they need more of a rewrite. But I want to put those hours in. It’s been so long since I’ve worked on a big project, as uni has been short stories and essays, and I’m itching to feel that way again. To be part of something bigger than myself. To create. To pour my heart into something that matters to me.
Of course uni matters, but essays are obligatory. I love the units where I get to write short stories, but the English classes don’t spark that in me. I’m more studying for that background information, the knowledge that comes in dissecting literature and getting into the mind of authors. Their intent, their context. It is interesting, but it’s not creative. It’s intellectual, it’s exhausting. But worth it. I’m so grateful for studying, and for choosing this.
June is the month. No assignments, no lectures. I’ll have work, but when I wake up on my days off, time will stretch before me and will be my own. I pray I use it how it is meant to be used.
Sarah xx
the softest words 