Back of every creation, supporting it like an arch, is faith. Enthusiasm is nothing: it comes and goes. But if one believes, then miracles occur. — Henry Miller
At the risk of conjuring up images of 80’s pop stars in huge sunglasses and over-gel’ed hair singing and dancing, I have to admit to having yet another crisis of faith. Not in a supernatural entity, but in my WIP. My enthusiasm seems to be waning.
I haven’t been able to write much of anything for days, but this is due at least in part to the fact that spring has finally it seems arrived here in my little corner of the world. Therefore, I am wracked with guilt about trying to spend as much time as possible outdoors, soaking up some sun. Those who live in parts of the country where sunshine is a more regular and reliable commodity cannot understand this. I did not understand this myself when I first moved here seventeen years ago. We came up from sunny California (shhhh, don’t tell!), where good weather was the order of the day seemingly without end. We arrived in a year that saw a particularly sunny and dry spring here, an unusually hot summer, and so I thought all the stories about rainy Oregon were a myth perpetuated by the locals to keep the Californians from moving here and driving up home prices. I remember one particularly warm and sunny day when we were at the mall doing some shopping, for what I have no idea now, and the salesman asked why we weren’t outdoors enjoying the weather. Puzzled, I shrugged. How ridiculous, I thought, what’s the big deal?
Which only goes to show how wrong I can be.
I now know how precious truly fine days are here, they are not to be squandered hanging out at the mall, and the only excuse for finding oneself indoors at the movies on a sunny afternoon is if it also happens to be 100 degrees Fahrenheit and you have no access to air conditioning.
So with all that in mind, it’s been difficult to stay indoors the last couple of days and write, when I so desperately need to be out trying to reclaim what was once my yard from the jungle it has become. I did make some progress on the lilacs which have been entirely neglected, like, forever, but for some reason reward me with masses of fragrant blooms anyway. They make life worth living.
I also seem to have lost some faith in myself. I know, it doesn’t take long for me to cycle up and down. It’s not bi-polar, or manic depression. There are no fantastic highs or mind-numbing lows. There are other forces at play that periodically weigh on me to a degree that affects me enough to notice it. I’m stalled on my WIP, uncertain what to do with it now. I wait for inspiration, but I know the best inspiration is simply to PBIC: Plant Butt In Chair.