writing

I have so much nostalgia and glimpses of beautiful images in my mind, you'd think the writing would come easy but it comes hard. That is just how it goes. Half the battle is getting the butt in the chair and that is hard enough. The rest is full of agony and self loathing and fear and anxiety. And you choke out words and it doesn't get any easier. Ick. I feel so scowl ridden.

The biggest problem for me is point of view. And then there is the problem of weaving all the fragments together, all the different decisions I have to make for all the made up people in my mind. There are a billion different versions of the lives of people who don't actually exist. Infinite. My job is to pick one version, the most interesting, I guess. But how do you know? How does god know? Is he a puppet master god or an armchair god? A helicopter parent or a deadbeat? Shall I observe or sculpt, how much pressure can you put on the pot while it spins until it collapses? And how much clay gets on your hands, the front of your shirt, in your mouth?