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Make the days stay...
Feb. 29th, 2004 07:56 pmIt's March already. March! February is passing out meekly, almost as if it's begging forgiveness for past blizzards and bitter winds. March?! Spring is walking towards us, being easily distracted, as a season exemplified by small rabbits tends to, but it's visible nonetheless. It's almost frightening, this lockstep of days moving so quickly from one to the next, amking time hard to see in the particular, instead I have to divide up into larger chunks, weekdays, weekends, going to the Flower Show, getting new bookcases. Time is marked by doings, or undoings, as yesterday evening and all day today were spent abed, trying to convince Zazen not to chase Isobel off my lap (without success, he's gotten crotchety in his old age).
My parents are very odd. I told them about getting paid for the writing I'm doing for a subscription site, and they're pleased all out of proportion - as if I'd gotten a book proposal accepted at a major publisher. Don't get me wrong, I'm tickled to death about it, although I would say that my lovely editor overvalues my work as much as my parents do. :) I've been doing the writing for some months now, for no other reason than the pleasure I get out of it - not being on mailing lists anymore I don't write much about the particulars of life as a servant at all, and the chance to do so is good for me, keeps my mind moving. When you spend as much time alone as I do, that's something vital.
My father has always been a little odd about my writing though. In second grade, I decided I wanted to be a writer, and unlike my previous choices (firefighter, ballerina, and dogcatcher!) never wavered, not until college, oddly enough. Sometime, at some point the drive just *left*, and hasn't come back. Sure, once in a while I scribble out a pice of poetry, and get into moods on here where I concentrate on turning out polished phrasing, but as for actual *writing*, a few months ago I had a wonderful idea for an urban fariy tale, something to do with a changeling, and have since forgotten all about it, never having put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard just has no ring to it).
I don't know why.
My parents are very odd. I told them about getting paid for the writing I'm doing for a subscription site, and they're pleased all out of proportion - as if I'd gotten a book proposal accepted at a major publisher. Don't get me wrong, I'm tickled to death about it, although I would say that my lovely editor overvalues my work as much as my parents do. :) I've been doing the writing for some months now, for no other reason than the pleasure I get out of it - not being on mailing lists anymore I don't write much about the particulars of life as a servant at all, and the chance to do so is good for me, keeps my mind moving. When you spend as much time alone as I do, that's something vital.
My father has always been a little odd about my writing though. In second grade, I decided I wanted to be a writer, and unlike my previous choices (firefighter, ballerina, and dogcatcher!) never wavered, not until college, oddly enough. Sometime, at some point the drive just *left*, and hasn't come back. Sure, once in a while I scribble out a pice of poetry, and get into moods on here where I concentrate on turning out polished phrasing, but as for actual *writing*, a few months ago I had a wonderful idea for an urban fariy tale, something to do with a changeling, and have since forgotten all about it, never having put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard just has no ring to it).
I don't know why.
