Thanksgiving is now a memory, the extra pounds an effort.
But I am happy to report that along with an extra pound or two I also regained my enthusiasm for writing.
Do you ever go through those dry periods? Not necessarily that you don’t have anything to write, but that you don’t feel like writing.
Shame.
In search of my creative ways, I have gone back to basics of magic and sky and moon and night and the belief in elves and dragons and alternate realities. Not that I ever left that space — I just feel like embracing it more these days. No one knows if there is anything after this life. Heaven, reincarnation, inner-galactic rebirth — take your choice and go for it.
Get past the barriers of proof and direct experience and karma. Take a chance and believe in something that makes you feel whole. Do unicorns exist? Does it matter? We can’t see sub-atomic particles either, but scientists and the world believe in them. Why can’t we believe in time travel too?
Too often we live under other’s expectations. What we should wear, what we should say, how we should act, what we should believe.
I believe at 64 I am old enough to believe in whatever I want.
So I’ve decided to work on my second set of novels — not the simple time-travel ones, but the ones where the heroine gets transported to another part of the galaxy to help discover what happened to the king’s sister.
I mean — why not?
We can write and paint and dream anything we want. And I’ve decided I’m not going to let any correctional unit tell me different.
Don’t let those around you, from society to your girlfriend to your teacher, tell you what you are. What you should be. Want to be a bard? Be a bard. Want to be a witch? Be a witch. Want to be an abstract artist? Be an abstract artist! You can be a pirate that day jobs as a sales clerk, or detective who works in a warehouse during main hours.
Don’t wait until you’re 64 to decide who you are.
What are you?