Hopping on a Rusty Saddle

Lately my expectations of what I am capable of doing are meeting the reality that I am capable. It’s an unexpected outcome of growing older and using my analytical skills.

I just finished teaching for the spring 2022 semester, and I already miss my students. But, I also miss my writing self. I have not written much this semester. Not working on lesson plans will help free up some of my time. I am currently on the third revision of my nonfiction manuscript. I keep plowing forward, slowly. I’m a farmer, sowing syntactical seeds. Next week, I return to you, Life in Flight.

Last year, I left off revising after reading and listening to the feedback from my writing group on my manuscript. Their suggestions sounded like so much work, and I wanted to be done. I needed a break. So of course, this semester, I dove into many projects, some more rewarding than others, and I lost focus of myself as a writer.

I think I know how to get my writing self back. I once thought my imagination was an account from which I could over-draw my share of inspiration, and that I had to tread lightly into creativity. I know that assumption is wrong now. My imagination bubbles over the more I pour into it and the more inspired I am. The relationship between my imagination and my writing life is perfectly symbiotic.

I want to jump back into writing like we were never apart. My biggest indicator that I can jump back into writing is that I’m sitting in front of my computer, wondering what to write next. Is it even possible?

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