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Inward

1/6/22

… Am I turning inward?

1/8/22

People are talking about something I wrote a while ago. I feel like a peeping tom, squinting through the window slats.

I see you have thoughts related to my thoughts, she thought.

1/9/22

Anxiety and impatience, tightly wound together. Always in a hurry, I push myself around.

1/12/22

In considering a life of greater silence, I imagine the lifting of a burden.

1/13/22

When I cease aiming my thoughts outward, I gain access to a rich inner life.

The landscape is familiar. Did I play here as a child? Last night, my bed became a pirate ship on rough seas.

Inward, my heart insists. Inward.

1/18/22

A story can be a wild thing, dug up in an old faerie mound.

1/20/21

It’s difficult to find references to this place. It slips away the moment you try to wrap it in words. Ray Bradbury called his my secret self.

1/22/22

How strange that inward calls for less reflection, less self-examination. Outward thinking turns the self into subject matter. I becomes the focus, the hero of every story and share.

But I is not my subject.

I cannot push my I outward without sanding down my rougher edges. And therein lies a blogger’s struggle. Politeness and amicable fitting in makes for fine dinner parties, but self-censorship in personal reflection is anathema to the heart’s integrity.

My rough edges are where the good stuff grows. I need my raw compost! Oh, that beautiful muck.

1/23/22

hmmm

1/24/22

… HMMM

1/25/22

1/26/22

A clue was waiting in the first chapter of The Artist’s Way. There’s a difference between “official” thoughts and our real ones. Thus the artist’s journal remains private, a pen and paper conversation between a writer’s two selves.