Freewriting...

Sometimes the idea of freewriting overwhelms because there are so many things I want to write, need to write. My brain jams with all the possibilities…do I write something new? Work on something I have a deadline for? Compose a new blog? Actually finish a project I've stuffed in a drawer waiting for a time when I can write anything I absolutely want to?

And then the parameter of turning it in…it changes my mindset. To meander thoughtfully on a page like walking a path in the woods. Turn left, no look at that tree straight ahead, but what about way over there, isn't that a fence? Oooh, I have to cross the fence, go where I probably shouldn't, because that's how my brain works. And then to consider all the things to touch, to look at, to explore deeper. If I stay on the more worn path, I'm left with a Frost-like philosophy, What if I missed something I could show to the world, a new idea, a new plot, a new concept no one has ever thought of before? The writer-envy wants a Walden experience in an urban world. Can I have that? Live in the big-middle of the world and find a utopian spot where only I can see all the intricacies of a story no one has yet told? The idea gives me chills. To discover, to explore, to generate thoughts that might open eyes to something brand new or a new twist on something age-old. isn't that what every writer dreams of? It’s a quandary for me to think I might not come up with anything special: Conroy's Beach Music, Capote's In Cold Blood, Mitchell's Gone with the Wind, Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath…the books that need no summary, need no introduction, that a first line whispered is often enough to evoke the memory of having read it. With the things I've written, I haven't achieved that. I yearn for it, ache to create that Oprah-admired instant classic that people will oooh and ahhh over and say, "Wow, I knew she had it in her, but I never dreamed it would be this wonderful."

God, a girl can dream…