Regrowth

I was given a really nice wristwatch for Christmas. It was just what I wanted, but it happens to be the noisiest watch I have ever owned. You can hear it tick from across the room. It reminds me of the Master from Doctor Who (the 10th Doctor) and the constant drumming he had in his head. I just happen to have it on my wrist. As long as I don't take over the world and try to bring back the planet of Gallifrey I think it will be ok.

I digress. This wasn't what I wanted to write about today. My thoughts were about writing. I feel like a need a project, and it seems like after all the crafty-crap I do, I find myself wanting to write. I'm too cowardice, though, to act on it. Yesterday I volunteered to write a blog for work, but I don't know if that will come through. If I have the time, I'd be glad to relate behind-the-scenes stories of what happens in a museum, or what the curatorial vision is behind an exhibition. However, I don't want to write garbage that reflects that I "just didn't have the time". Call me a perfectionist, but anything work related must be vetted and vetted again because so many people look at it. (It would not be a stream of consciousness like this entry flooded with "wases and weres".)

Last year I wanted to write a children's book. I had the idea laid out, and just needed to write it. It didn't happen. About 6 months ago, I promised my grandmother that I'd write a book (of sorts) about my mother and how she's touched the lives of so many people. I took notes, but it didn't go anywhere. What is wrong with me that I can't follow through on these projects? Do I lack the drive or the interest? Probably.

I'd like to try again. I'd like to pick up a pen (or just sit at a computer) and write something. Anything to get my creative juices flowing again. Creative writing was one of my favorite classes in school, but laborious college editing courses in historical editing and research killed those creative braincells. Instead of bringing an appealing world to life on paper I worried about passive sentences and grammar. It's not fair. I want to regrow those brain cells and actually do something fun.

I always thought that I'd be involved in the arts in some way- but I thought it was the visual arts I craved. Maybe it's the creative writing that I've neglected that rounds me out. Afterall, my mother is a writer and I learned from the best. I couldn't tell you how many papers, essays, didactics, and labels she's proofed for me. I also couldn't quantify the times as a kid that I cried over her "red ink" on my homework. Her criticisms were worse than my teachers. It was to make me a better writer. Today, I still I watch my commas like a hawk and my passives like a snake.

But time is ticking away. Tick. Tick. Tick. It's pretty loud.