Dates with my inner child are exhausting

I think my inner child needs a nap.  The Artist's Way has me thinking about her a lot.  Not just thinking about her, actually.  I'm supposed to spend time with her each week and let me tell you, she's exhausting.  Her appetite for creative outlets is, let's say, healthy.  She's reminding me of all of these artistic endeavors that delighted me when I was younger.  

I had forgotten the months dedicated to honing my calligraphy skills after we had one class about it in high school art.  I had forgotten the yearning poems of my thirteen year-old self that I'd bravely submitted to the school newspaper in hopes of being "seen" on a deeper level by somebody.  I'd forgotten about my well intended but ill performed attempts at acting in middle school.  About the even worse attempts at singing in musicals, blissfully ignorant that I was holding notes only dogs could hear.  About the years devoted to baton twirling before changing my mind to try tap lessons.  Piano lessons.  Ceramics classes.  Crocheting.  A fashionably misguided attempt at repurposing a sweatshirt into a "chic" button up jacket by cutting it down the middle and sewing these "Asian inspired" togs on it.  (I proudly wore that thing far too frequently and way too long into my high school years than I should readily admit.  Thanks to Sassy Magazine for the inspo.)  Watercolors.  Acrylics.  Pastels.  Ribbon design (who knew that was a thing?).  A half finished scrapbook about a family vacation.  Friendship bracelets.  Lanyard key chains.  Vibing Gregorian chant and taking Latin partially because I was a dramatic bitch who thought learning prayers in Latin would get me closer to God, or at the least, score some points with my favorite Priest who was a true mentor to me during a time I needed one.  Learning French to say the things I wouldn't want to say if God or my Priest were around.  

When I think about how writing fit into these creative bursts, (outside of the poems.  Yeesh, the poems!) I can't claim I was one of those people who knew at a young age that they wanted to write.  I don't have half finished stories laying around from my teen years.  What I do have are journals.  I journaled a lot.  And even then, with writing, I was interested in things that were true.  My autobiography unfolding through journals was, to me, a snapshot of my life for my future children to read.  Or, on melancholic days I would envision my sister finding my journals after my death years in the future, and it would serve to bring her some sort of arcane understanding of me as a person that would somehow reinvent her own life in a way that weirdly made me some kind of hero from beyond the grave.  Keeping my childhood journals is no surprise given I went on to be a cultural anthropologist and a museum studies person.  I love a good narrative, and keeping things in perpetuity is my jam.  

In spending time with my child self, though, I've discovered two things about my writing.  First, the sandbox I currently like to play in has some structure to it, and that's okay.  It's okay that I wanted to write this story from a place of truth about a world that already exists because that's the writing experience I know the best.  It's okay that the "creation" wasn't pure fantasy from the jump.  The second thing I'm realizing is that I've got a desire to try out other approaches.  Who knows?  My attempts at writing fantasy or speculative fiction may be as fruitful as my attempts at scrap booking were.  And that's okay.  The point is the trying.  The point is the enjoying.  The point is the journey. 

At any rate, my inner child has me exploring a lot of these old interests in a way that is really filling my soul, but by some accounts, could be seen as procrastination.  I'll admit that my output for the novel has slowed a little in the last three weeks since starting the Artist's Way, but it's been a good thing for me at a deeper level to confront these things.  I'm confident that the continued internal exploration is only going to serve to make my next draft even better.  

March first had been my original goal for finishing a first draft.  Admittedly, I'm not even plussed by that, which also tells me I'm doing something right.  As predicted, some of my real world camp commitments have started picking up, and they truly do pull out a lot of creative energy from me, and that's okay.  I recognize it.  I get it.  I need to honor that commitment, and that's just how life is going to work for right now.  So if I only write two or three scenes a week moving forward and the draft doesn't get done until April...so be it.  I'm still making progress, and I am still enjoying the journey.  

For those of you keeping track, I'm about to finish Chapter 7 and only have fifteen scenes left to write.  The campers are at the camp dance.  Two boys are about to sneak away from the dance to pull a prank, and some of the girls are going to eavesdrop on some tough news about one of their fellow campers that's going to cause some DRAMA. Can't wait to share it with you.