There are a lot of ways to finish that statement.
The more I write, the more observant I become.
The more I write, the happier I am.
and so on
But what strikes me now is this:
The more I write, the more creative I become.
I didn’t really expect that, in advance. I had a tendency to think that level of creativity is static… but it’s not.
Like anything else, the more you practice the better you become. This is not to say my next novel will be an epic masterpiece or anything (wouldn’t hurt) but the creativity workshop is in overdrive and it comes out in interesting ways.
For example, in regards to this as-yet unfinished (but currently underway as I write) siding project. Last Thursday and Friday they managed to get 2/3 complete but were then stimied by weather, only today returning to complete the job. In the meantime we had two walls – the ones intersecting at our bedroom – that were half complete, with the bottom 1/3 covered in new siding and the top 1/3 covered in old. The wind blew heavily in the storms and the old siding was a mass of creeeaaaaaaaaaaks and bangbangbang and thumps that left both my husband and I lying awake at 3:30 AM. Within half an hour I was up, checking email, doing a bit of the DayJob, and before I laid back down trying to figure out how to fit the the situations to the lyrics of Judy Garland’s Trolley Song.
It went something like this:
Bang Bang Bang went the siding
Whoosh Whoosh Whoosh went the wind
Groan Groan Groan went the Mama
As she tried to go sleep again
I am pretty sure that 6 months ago I would have had a different response. Who knows, maybe next time a half finished-construction project keeps me up at night I will start on my own personal Beowulf or Pride and Prejudice.
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