cabin fever

Cabin fever does not lead me to creativity, apparently. Despite massive snowstorms trapping me inside, I spent most of my time blowing off on the phone. Enforced solitary confinement, unlike chosen solitary, leaves me restless and social, chatty. When I finally got out of the house, I made quite a spectacle of myself, a dancing fool. I have to say, a swell evening, although not perhaps good for my liver. It lives a mostly quiet life, so I suppose it can stand the occasional moment of overwork.

One of the great advantages of my 40s: I spent much less time worrying about what people think. A little mortification is good for the soul, but too much leaves you frozen. I'm cold enough thanks to the snow.

I wish that I could catch some wave of inspiration, some bursting moment of Wow, What a Great Project! This is my problem though. I'm into the creative high, not the creative slog. Most projects are completed not in a rush of giddiness, a flash of Muse light. Nope, most are hacked out even when you don't feel like it, when the 2nd draft is worst than the first and only by the 5th do you start thinking, huh, maybe it really doesn't suck. I have a drawer full of somewhat promising but deeply flawed first drafts.

Now that seems like a metaphor: unfulfilled potential, my stories a reflection of my own stumbling. Probably best not to dwell on that too much.

I am casting about for the Next Big Thing. Move? Travel? New Art Something or Other? Blinding Love? (Hey, it was just Valentine's Day - even I have my sappy moments). Would that I had an attention span. Maybe in the spring? When the godawful snow finally melts?

In the meantime, whiny globs 'o blog. Whee!