Don't Keep Calm and Carry On

I want to make things. Pretty things, with fluff and fuzz and feathers and fringe. I want to make things that sparkle like fresh snow not rhinestones and drape across chests and dangle down to navels, and make people feel good when they put them on and touch them and see them.

I want to learn how to sew, so I can wear things that feel like singing, instead of listlessly browsing through fabric drooping on hangers in rows upon rows in shopping malls.

I want to knit more, so I can have cozy things and everyone I love can have cozy things too, because everyone deserves socks that feel magical when you put them on, and mittens filled with fluff so your fingers never get cold.

I want to make more necklaces and bracelets and earrings, because they make all of my clothes feel more special, and because when I wear my feather necklace I feel like a lion, and I want more of that in my everyday, and I want other people to feel like lions in their everyday too.

I want to write more, but that doesn’t have to be for anyone else – that’s for me, because I feel healthier and happier and stronger when I do, and everything in the world is electrified and filled with possibility. And I want to read more, books and words that feed me and scare me and console me and lie with me before fucking me, and maybe even fuck me up a little, because sometimes that’s what happens when you climb into someone else’s brain for a while, and sometimes those are the stories you need to experience.

I want to have extra hands, so I can do all of these things, and have time for them all, and do many other things that I don’t even know how to do yet.

Zen Habits: The World Needs You to Do What You Love

Erik Mallinson

On Unsticking

Image via weheartit

I've been hitting grit after spinning for so long.

Headlong into the noveling project (7,000 words in, roughly), I'm grappling with The Wall. This is supposedly common for week two. I fear I have an exceptionally dull protagonist and a flighty, derivative storyline. I have wonderful people supporting me and cheering me on, and I fear that they'll want to read what I'm writing and I'll have to tell them, "no, not ever", because thinking it'll never see the light of day is the only way I can actually do this in the first place. 50,000 words is a lot of work to never be read by anyone but me, which makes me feel like it's not amounting to much, but I can't know how this is going to turn out, and I need to put my pride aside and not expect any sort of outcome. I'm reminding myself that this 50,000 is an investment in me and an education in shucking off my self-editor and she's been shushed quite successfully for 7,000 words, so what's 43,000 more? (Gulp.)

I've got a new distraction, which doesn't help my word count, but makes the writing easier. There are late night smiles and cheesy jokes and car rides with great music and hands on one another's knees, and suddenly I find myself wanting to share all of my favourite songs and wear my prettiest clothes and brush the hair off his forehead. I feel still and quiet and content and present. This feels comfortable, which is good, as I'm out of my well-defined depth.

Sometimes I catch myself and think, "but this isn't what you wanted!", but I think I only knew what I didn't want – I didn't want to settle. But it's not settling, it's not accepting less or giving up, to give more breathing room to something imperfect but promising. I've been so good at being practical that I'd forgotten how to take a leap on something that didn't have an expiry date. And I'm still not sure that I'm any good at it, but I can only get better if I'm not afraid to fail.

So far, November's taught me that to get wheels out of the mud, I can't be afraid of the dirt.