It’s hot inside the wool suit but it’s like wearing just a hoodie to school and having to suffer, wishing you had some way out, wishing you had some other choice to make, but you’re stuck all day, hot and, as I mentioned before, itchy. And you’re gonna be in it until at least next June.
This is the metaphor for how I feel when it has gone days and weeks and months and I haven’t been writing. It’ll be like a gnat in my ear, a constant hunger. It’s a low lying hum that can almost get lost in the din of an exciting life but can also raise its volume to deafening pitches.
Writing daily soothes me. There is a release of something inside of me that was battering to get out, there is an ease of tension because only through writing can I understand my own thoughts. There is this momentum that I get swept up in when a story breaks through and begins to work, begins to move. I feel right when I’m writing. My mind is being put at peace as I sort out my relationships and their meaning through memoir and as I place characters where they belong at the dinner table and find out what it is they have to say after so long rolling around in my imagination I feel an ebbing relief.
But it’s not so perfectly easy. Any metamorphosis has growing pains. As I shed this wool suit I’ll also be shedding my own skin as I walk away from what I always knew and knew well, away from a kit that was safety net included! I might sprout wings, I might gain webbing between my toes, either way, it will be the evolved me!