It is now official: I will not continue for an 8th year of writing for the Floyd Press or a 4th for Star Sentinel. It just seemed, for a long list of reasons, that the time had come to move on and do something else, liberated from the obligation of these mostly-energizing deadlines staring me in the face without a break now for more than 150 essays and grampa tales.
That “something else” has fuzzy edges. I have two large writing projects vaguely in mind. One would be an expression of the understanding I have come to hold (and still continue to learn more about) with regard to an individual’s relationships to nature, place and community (stewardship from the local to the global.) The other is the “dog book” I mentioned just a week ago–before we had said creature laying across my feet (or alternately, trying to eat them.)
How I will be able under the new circumstances, even without the press deadlines, to devote even 10% of the necessary focus to either of these projects (and not like these works are the sum total of my responsibilities, obligations or ambitions) with a new puppy eludes me. But then, I knew this going in. I just know it in a different, more tactile, puppy-breath sort of way these past few days. Gandy is a good teacher.
That said, I am not going to know what to do with my fingers, my words, my accumulated snippets and read-laters and aha! moments when topics to write about coalesce before my mind’s eye, and I have nowhere for a finished essay to go. I don’t want to lose the constant vigilance and curiosity that has driven me to tell stories in print these last years. I’ve learned a heck of a lot by “teaching” the tip of the icebergs I’ve uncovered in my required studies. Without the requirement, will I just become a packrat of information for its own sake? Does this mean I am in retreat or only changing direction? I really do not know yet.
Well there you go: I just turned around after being distracted (as if I was entitled to a personal moment out of my larger and vastly more important servant-responsibilities) in the typing of these few paragraphs, and caught a rare bladder incident in progress. My fault. I forgot that my writer’s hat hangs on the wall now. Hopefully, I can eventually be clicker-trained to never not-for-a-second take off my lion-tamer’s hat at least until maybe summer.
Yes mum. Coming, Your Grace.