My class mates have been telling me I have been holding back in my writing. It is interesting feedback as I have been doing nothing but write about the world as I see it through my eyes. I would think this speaks volumes. So now I am searching for the threads that connect my story to a deeper part of myself.
Sometimes I might be doing something else completely and fragments come in. I think, "I should put that in." I rush to a yellow sticky note and scribble a few phrases down to help jog my memory. Later I return to where I was and stare at the sticky notes in dismay. Gibberish. It is like a dream sequence that has melted away as one pours the morning coffee, an encryption, a mysterious message from a dream portal that makes absolutely no sense. I put it in a folder and hope that the message will come through again.
Somehow it feels as though something precious is not being made use of, that I have missed the boat and the ship has sailed, that the book is off writing itself somewhere with a more attentive authoress and I am not at the other end of my own pen.