Day Fifteen: 23,214 of 50,000 words
I hope to catch up soon.
I will catch up soon: replying to comments, word count, social activities, sleep. All of it.
But right now it’s hard to keep up with what I’m doing when I’m having a hard time even keeping up with myself.
I’m experiencing something I suspected might happen when I started this project. I’m different. I’m not entirely changed – no one in my life is saying that I’m not the same as I was, for instance.
Of course, not very many people have seen me recently… because I’m, you know, writing all the time.
But there are subtle things. It’s like I’m so busy actively writing that I’m forgetting to be the person I think I am. So I’m slipping into the person I am.
More like catapulting than slipping.
It’s as though there are two of me, and while one is busy trying to figure out the next plot twist or what might drive a person to become a murderer (remember, I’m doing dark things this month), the other me is busy repainting the walls and taking over my wardrobe while the rest isn’t looking.
Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird talks about characters developing like a Polaroid, and I feel like that – I’m a washed out image of someone fading into existence, a hand, hat, foot at a time. Like I’m a Cheshire Girl and all that I know is my grin.
It’s fascinating to be someone else, but someone also so familiar. Uncomfortable, yet like coming home.
If I wasn’t so intent on writing, I’d stop what I’m doing and go make myself look like Who I Think I Am again, make it all tidy and safe and acceptable. But I don’t have the time, so I’m letting myself blossom into something and someone else. It’s beautiful and frightening and confusing.
What I’m really doing is writing myself real.
And it makes me wonder if maybe when we stop writing in the middle of something, is it because we touch something in ourselves that is true and naked and really not who we think we are at all – so we run away?