Cornelia Bullen-Smith

My writing this year was like … jumping.

Jumping into an adventure, forgetting to leave expectations on the edge.
Instead: opening my mouth at every occasion, letting big words jump out, unchecked.
In February it was “The Novel” and many days of solitary confinement, desk, laptop, coffee, wild ideas. Coming. Going. Jumping. Some sentences arm wrestled into submission, pinned down onto the screen, into the memory of a machine.
Creeping along, unseen, was Loneliless. Isolation. Finally visible as the dragon of dispair, spitting fire: Usssselesssss. Ssssstupid. Full Stop.
Recovery. Downscaling…’Just one published short story!’
More walks, more contact with speaking creatures, dramatic increase of radio listening ‘for inspiration’.
Then –
joyfully jumping into the outside world. Getting involved ‘out there’, desperately hungry for human contact. Starving. Taking notes. But often not.
Another panic. Another dragon.
I’m hovering, hunting, gathering.
Suddenly too many responsibilities, not many to do with writing. Although ideas become sparkly again, written words appear stale and clumsy.
Jumping back in fear of the ‘too much – can’t do’, hopping on one foot, stalling, looking for a pen. E v e n t u a l l y, after painful struggles, jumping forward again.
This leap with eyes and soul open,  mouth closed. Sometimes.

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