It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. ~Vita Sackville-West
What grabbed me most in this quote was the “life itself is gone.” Not if we write it down, I say. This is where we score. We leave a record of our passing.
I sit here trying to remember what I wanted to say next. I haven’t been able to get much writing done lately, I seem to be in a bit of a funk, to put it in the vernacular. When I’m at work all I can think about is my story I’m working on. I just want to be someplace else. I’m not the only one, it seems. A co-worker stopped by my desk the other day, and said he couldn’t concentrate on this place either. He then proceeded to tell me about the businesses he’d been thinking of starting up. Is it the stars and planets? I chalk it up to the season, the time of year. It’s the weeks of waiting for spring to begin, the time for winter to take its heavy coat out of the closet and pack it off with the rest of its luggage. Let us be done with the snow, and the ice, and the freezing fog, the dark, the cold.
This feels like a mid-season, in between winter and spring. It’s a waiting period. I circle endlessly in my head in a holding pattern. What I need is a clean break, a jolt into the next season. I’m too impatient. I can’t flip the “Spring” switch to “on.” It’s just the winter doldrums, and they’ll pass I know. The daffodils broke through back in December, and the tulips are about and inch and a half high now. Spring is coming, as it always does.