Being Open At The Writing Group
The other day I went to a creative writing group, the Columbus Creative Cooperative that I’ve been going to for a few months now. Leading up to that day I’d been in a slump and I wrote about that in a few posts.
I gave the group a copy of The Summertime Ice-cream Girl and they gave some good critiques but I didn’t get from them what I really needed to know; namely if they understood what it was really about (I got the feeling they missed the point of the story), if they found the narrator unreliable, and if they understood the hallway at the end (and the toaster). They gave me some good critiques and brought up some good points, but there were so many questions I had to ask that I never did. I was out of it that day, feeling like shit as if under a riptide that was pulling me out into uncertainty where I couldn’t control a single probability and maybe, as a reaction, I wrapped my remaining possibilities around myself, like a life preserver. I didn’t open myself like I needed to, I couldn’t, I didn’t have the confidence nor the will to explain myself and ask the necessary questions and the only person that hurt was me. Being closed only hurt me.
The point being, if I had been following the flow I’ve been concentrating on I would have been able to open myself, to extend not only mine but everyone’s possibilities. Instead, I was in a shitty-down mood and the sky looked so heavy squashing that I felt flat, separate from everything. I have to always keep in mind my goals, to always hold that one flow in the back of my mind — That’s when I’m confident, that’s when the world glows and everything is open.
But a problem persists: I can’t seem to maintain that excitement and openness and love for life and everything that’s coming. It’s as if I need at times to be sad, to be withdrawn and cynical and sulk in my own little rotting miserable skull. Perhaps that’s just the nature of balance, or manic-depressive. Or maybe I need exciting people in my life, people with the same love of open possibilities and the crazy shining lust of running down train tracks bare naked to find what’s at the end.