I read a story once about an old woman who was moving to a retirement home. Her son helped her out of the car and said something like “let’s go see your room.” Her response was “It’s lovely dear,” and he gently reminded her that she hadn’t seen it yet. She replied that she was sure it would be beautiful.
Now, maybe she was too old to know what she was talking about, or MAYBE, since she was going to be there for a while, she had just already decided to love it. They say that’s one of the tricks to living a long life – finding happiness where ever you are.
I’m all for it. I try to be happy with whatever situation I find myself in. I find that if you look hard enough you can find humor almost anywhere and choosing to be satisfied is always to your benefit – except in artistic endeavors.
With my writing I take the opposite stance. I actively nurture my dissatisfaction. I am like an old codger at a noisy amusement park. Everything is wrong until proven otherwise. Don’t talk to me, don’t try to appease me, and generally just leave me alone until I’ve decided to come out of my funk.
I wonder if I will ever reach a point with my writing where I am capable of tending my satisfaction, if it will ever serve me in my art. As of right now it seems unlikely, but I do still consider myself a blue-square-ski-run kind of writer. Maybe as I grow wiser I will find a space for peace within my writing practice. Maybe not.
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