“Why Do You Write and What’s Your Process? “
The group asks the question.
Answers flutter in – something like butterflies in the height of summer pirouetting from bloom to bloom, overlapping one another, dodging, racing, touching petal with fragile hairs, drawing nectar up and in…searching. I am the writing butterfly.
I flit from story to story, sometimes finishing them, often not, grabbing bits of time here and there, starting anew, hoping to recall the thought left mid-sentence when my cramped legs call for stretching.
My life is pure creative expenditure.
I have made my living as a visual artist for thirty years.
That requires committing to solitary work schedules, deadlines, production, all while generating fresh ideas, visions, product on an exhausting continuum.
To rest, refuel, come to life again, I turn to writing.
Writing is where I can do as I wish, say what I want, without regard to sales figures.
I have written pieces that kept me wakeful for days on end and stolen not a cent of rest; they were so exciting in the doing.
Others have sent me into states of mental paralysis, switching off from thought for months at a time.
I say that the balance to my sell mode is the writing, which goes directly into the desk drawer where it stays.
But, truthfully, there is no balance, not in the traditional sense of the word. Balance brings to mind a teeter-totter.
Up, up, up – but on the way, the sense of coming down is strong and the body readies itself.
Balance is standing on the Wobbly Board, training minute muscle movement, every cell sharply aware of every other cell, in the drive to stand perfectly still and strong.
Balance is the stick holding delicately in upright position on the end of finger at the end of a fully extended arm, eyes focused laser-like on one spot of stillness.
Where is the rest in such balance?
A friend reminds me that I can rest when I am dead. And so, I continue – late at night in spurts of thought, earplugs in (to block fire engine sirens – “stop, come to the window, make sure your house is not on tire”, distracting call of the icemaker – “come, stop, have an ice tea”, thumping dryer – “stop now, fold me”.
I continue – loving my computer, rescuing me from aching fingers overstressed wielding daytime tools. I continue – sporadically, fearing all the while the quick evaporation of time.
Thx.
Whitney
www.whitneypeckman-painter.com
www.whitneypeckman.com