Quotes on writing

“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself. . . . It's a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” 

— Harper Lee

Selfie

Today is Friday and I've been writing three days, almost nonstop on various projects, trying to move the motion forward. For a bit there, I was so lost in Plague2020 news that I could not function, but I don't see the reason behind that now. It's a sort of madness to focus so much time online just reading the thoughts of other people when I am sitting here trying to make sense of my own life. So I went back to work. I am still working. I was trying to take a selfie, but it's getting late afternoon here and I needed the natural light from my bedroom window and the cat refused to let me pose or attempt to get a good angle and so I just starting clicking while the cat swiped at me. My bedroom window is her window. As I type this, she is still pestering me, for I don't know what reason. I have fed her, let her outside to roam the backyard, given her treats. She likes dehydrated chicken pieces. They cost more than my own treats, which makes no sense to me. Am I not superior to her?  I have no complaints today. I am alive and healthy. The cat is too. I had a good dinner of salmon and a salad. I might have some bread and butter for a snack later. No chocolate. I have thrown out all the chocolate because I have gained weight since Plague2020 announcements and it was all mostly the chocolate I was snacking on daily. Poof! It's gone. Now I am walking again and working in the garden. I love my garden. It's so green and full of business and that's life things and possibilities. Oh, I must go, the cat is literally whining, wanting something. 

Some thoughts: We are restricted. We are paused in some ways. But we have to go on believing in possibilities. I live in possibilities. I am taking a class on Buddhism and Modern Psychology and I am going to work at learning French, those are Plague2020 things to fill hours I would normally be doing things with other people. I have some regrets. I cannot see my children or grandchildren except from a distance. But I am better off than most. Past experiences have taught me how to be alone in a house, how to be alone with myself. Many people find this very difficult. Their minds begin to wander and they lose their way in anxiety and depression. I have too many words to write. I have too many books to read. Paintings to paint. Flowers to plant and nurture. I can't complain while so many people are sick, while so many people have died and died alone without loved ones to hold their hands and kiss their lips.

A clown, photography by Rolph Gobits

by Rolph Gobits 
From the 'Entertainers' series

It took Gobits twenty years to develop this series,  a circus-inspired collection of portraits of middle-aged clowns, knife throwers, ersatz cowboys, riders of tiny bicycles, accordion players, and masters of shadow puppetry.

I've always been obsessed with it. And began looking at these images for use in my own work, both word and visual.