Okay. No posts for a while.
I’ve been circling, waiting to land.
Sadly, the act of circling feels very like being a passenger in the Rod Serling plane condemned to fly forever. Nothing bloggish to say. Nothing original sprouting in the grey matter. No energy to communicate it, even if a solitary brain cell ever did condescend to land.
The circling has invaded the bookspace, too. The end of the book is, literally, pages away, but the writer hasn’t had enough energy at the end of the workday to do anything but scrape over already-scraped space. Dogged, yes. Determined, kinda. But driven—ummmm, no.
The pilot has been asleep at the controls. And circling on empty.
A glimmer through the haze of exhaustion. A hint of landing lights, perhaps. A wispy suggestion of the joy that writing is, the purpose that animates us and draws us home at the end of the day. The prospect of denouement; of falling in love with character and words for one final farewell. And, of course, the hard-work-joy of the rewrite, the step away, the clean objectivity of the edit. The understanding that we live to create, not just to exist. These are the Bernoulli Principle of the creative heart that lifts our mental wings and lets us soar.
Sometimes we crash. Sometimes we thud. Sometimes we splash down without Capt. Sully’s Hudson River grace or composure. And sometimes (a feeling so rare in me, lately), we see the magic in the final approach; feel the tickle of the air as we bank out of that Twilight Zone arc and line up our ideas with joy and precision.
Tonight, the mental control tower tells me this: Circling itself can be a destination. Even if the addled pilot hasn’t quite figured out what it is.