Sometimes I wish I had a compass that pointed true north. For my writing, to tell me when I veer off-course. Writing is a dangerously solitary life. And sometimes scary. As I type each word in my third chapter I wonder if I am doing justice to the character, to the story, to writing in general.
There is no one sitting on my shoulder, directing me thoughts, guiding my fingers, shaping my mind. There is just me. And my thoughts, experiences, feelings and imagination. The borders of my creativity bleed into my words... if I am having a good day.
Otherwise, I have to gouge them out of me. Sharp knives. Blades, drawing out words with agony and satisfaction
I must make my own way, slick with the fluids of life. And mold feelings into words; images into reality.
Do I carry my own compass within me? Is going off-course so wrong?
These days I am channeling Shashi, 17, angry, in love, amoral. I am liking her more each day.
I am my own compass.