I almost wasn’t going to post anything this week. I’ve been dragging my heels, writing wise, over the past few days because of a whole bunch of life stuff that took up a lot of time. This means I have had little energy to sit down in front of the computer to put anything into type. But when I can’t write the best thing to do is dive into my sketchbook to get the creative juices going, so this morning I joined a couple of friends on zoom for a bit of sketchbook practice.
For a while now, I’ve been kicking a novella around my writing desk in the hopes that its missing piece would make itself known. Despite beta readers telling me they enjoyed it, there has always been something not quite right about it. Something that nagged me. Something that made me feel uncomfortable about saying ‘It’s done!’ Every so often I have taken it out, dusted it off and had another crack at it but still that something eluded me, until yesterday.
I have always considered myself pretty polyamorous when it comes to art media. Paints, pastels, markers, charcoal, pencils, ink: I have loved them all. I even flirt with a bit of collage from time to time. But I have never felt a particularly strong affection for one over the others…until now.
It’s not always easy being consistent with blogging. I should know. I look back over the past year of this blog and see very large gaps in between posts at times. This is something I am now trying to remedy by sticking to a consistent schedule and making sure that I use whatever time I have to work on the three elements that need to come together to create one post. Because it’s not just about writing the thing. It’s also about presenting the thing.