I have been selfish with myself for a spell. That's one of the reasons (excuses) for not writing here. I don't know that selfish is the best word. I'm not really a selfish person, more like selfless to a fault, so that self care feels selfish.
I have been selfcare with myself for a spell. That's better, if you will excuse my grammar.
Today I went to the main branch of the Nashville Public Library (for serious when am I not there) to hear Ann Patchett read a short story.
Y'all she was lovely, inside and out. I loved hearing her brain on her own written page being spoken in her voice. There was laughter in the conference room, I saw people with their heads cocked like cute dogs, looking thoughfully as she spoke.
At the end, she said she was told by a professor to write about what you know. And that "what you know" could come from anywhere. She said she was a student of silence, of staring, of observing.
Hey....I'm good at that!
So I am back to my book, you know, the book that I keep damn talking about. It is to tight. The story is too wrapped in itself. I knew for a long time that I needed to loosen it up so that it could breathe. The story needs air, and I think I have figured out how to breathe life into its nostrils.
I am so glad that I went, and am thankful for the inspiration.