Not rational

Posted on 22 October 2004

I tumbled out to my little house in the garden this morning, straining to see and hear if a bear had entered my space. I think about Marion Engel’s “Bear” who she fictively allowed into her northern home, to join her in front of the fire, and who left claw marks down her back.

What is this passion I have for reading and writing? Where are they leading me? I have spent so many years dreaming, writing, editing and for what reason? I have been told many times by other writers I admire and trust that I am good at this sport, that I must continue to play. So I do. I do (said in the same tone that I used on my wedding day.)

Hells’ bells. Am I going to run out of paper and ink, (and more to the point, out of time) before anything comes of this mad scribbling? “Quantity not quality. Write copiously,” I tell myself. “Write, write, write, and the quality will magically appear.”

“Sure,” I whisper, not really believing that anything could be easy for me in this life. “How dare you complain?” another inner voice says. “You are privileged. You follow dreams. You dance on tables. You travel. You are loved.”


(So why are inner struggles so difficult to rationalize? Because they are not rational?)

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