Making Plans!

Alright. It's official. The time has come to leave New Haven once and for all. For the third time in less than two months (not to mention about the tenth time this year, bearing in mind that it is only May, ya'll) one of my beloved clients has decided the time to renegotiate an agreement is after my work has been satisfactorily completed and is in his (or her) hot little hands! Life in Connecticut has not exactly been stress-free without these frustrations; nevertheless, between health issues, insane family members, political chaos, non-existent community , and socio-economic dynamics which make life nightmarish for all but the most devoted (or the most charmed) the ability, the opportunity to actually--like-- write is nonexistent. More and more have I noted the difficulty in identifying with my characters, remaining focused on my plots, or even keeping track of story lines. Dialog--my long time foe--eludes me completely. Moreover, the constant worries and distractions, I now accept despite past obstinacy, leave me in a mindset of wanting nothing less at the end (or the beginning of the day) than to bang out one-thousand words. I find myself walking into fascinating settings without even the most niggling desire to whip out paper and pen (unheard of!) Note taking has dwindled to nil, as have daily contributions to journals, "sketch" books, and my daily impressions. Mostly, though, I have noted a change in my entire attitude towards my craft, viewing writing as a job--even a chore--rather than the love it once was. Why? Because of arrogant, insensitive so-and-sos who, even as they enhance their own livelihoods as a result of my "talent", consistently minimize not only its worth but the time, the effort, the heart, the thought, and the discipline it takes. I woke up Saturday morning glowering at my journal. The lovely, navy blue, exquisitely bound, leather journal with its lovely, high-quality, gold embossed pages, and beautiful rendition of an old-fashioned quill pen, a single cadet blue cursive "u" stretched out in a bold flourish behind it (a gift from my daughter Dauriauna from February 9th of last year to ease the sting of the second "anniversary" of my mother's death) sat firmly shut on my coffee table--an over-stretched rubber band keeping both Mickey Mouse and Wite-Out Correction pen conveniently accessible--causing no harm to me or anyone else; yet, as it lay there, I detested it as though it might be worst enemy. Why? Because the last entry committed to it had been on Easter morning; because were I to take up the pen I would have nothing positive to add; because the mere thought of entering all my frustrations and aspirations--yet again--proved utterly exhausting; because I did not want to rant and rage on paper about the latest paycheck to go MIA... Because... Because I hated even the thought of writing another, single word. I had too many projects to complete in an atmosphere in no way conducive to creative thought. To put aside the activities of the day in order to delve into myself and my impressions--in order to lay open emotion, sensation, and thought--grows increasingly more difficult. To visit any of my "prized" personal projects requires reaching a "place," a state unreachable from my current physical location--a place I despise, in which no part of me finds fulfillment, security, comfort or peace, even if I am able to (fortunately) maintain the same within myself despite the surrounding environment. I was feeling overwhelmed, the sensation of hopelessness, of actually drowning actually suffocating the creative impulses within me. (It did not help that the last e-mail--or "missive," as he calls them--from my dearest friend in the whole wide world consisted of a single line which read: "All well and good, but when are you going to put this prodigious writing talent to work: ie, the story of your father's family?")

In essence: It's time to get out of here, people!
This admitted, I decided the time had come to take action; thus, this week will be spent putting out "feelers" in an effort to make a fresh start. While the children are safely ensconced in their respective schools feels like the best time to pack and bag and get away fast. Already, my friends from both high school and college have been supportive, rather than listing for me all the reasons why I--even in all my stubbornness-- cannot make this happen. It's time to move on. It truly is. So, Here goes nothin'!