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As I said yesterday, I'm entering into a great adventure, trying to winnow 35 years of clutter. And yet, there's more to it.
There's something I've been wrestling with for a while. Recently, AI gave a talk which asked the question, "Who would you be without your stories?" It dealt with the labels we've given ourselves and the amount of potential we have if we strip off those labels.
To me, it resonated on other levels. On a very primal level, as a writer who knows how futile pursuit of the Muse can sometimes be, it was terrifying. No stories? No charecters, no dialog, no plots? It's having my soul's scream echoing in a vast hollow wilderness. Thank goodness that's not the question, right?!
However, with the purge, it's very apropos---these things I need to get rid of carry pieces of my story. Sometimes it's the where---this flea market, that furniture store---or who---this yard sale with S, that outing with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
missybrat. There are gifts and grab-bags, bargains and boondoggles.
Memories stream over me: teenage obsessions curdled into middle-aged eccentricity, family vacations, tokens of those who are gone for this lifetime---is that china figurine really the best representative of my sainted Aunt Mary? Will my dad come back and haunt me if I find a better home for his flotsam of tools in the garage? I haven't done any ceramics in at least five years---maybe I can get rid of some of the molds and bisque---not to mention some of the projects I made when I was into it! Peter's VHS tapes...next month will be ten years since he passed, and I haven't watched most of them!
And the worst, the really scary part---all the welter of books and notebooks and magazines and brochures and catalogues and paperwork. Oh, Christo. *holds head* Another permutation of "my story". Stories in the sense of books that sounded interesting and have been gathering dust since I dragged them home, stories that were boxed and closeted and now I can barely get at them to see what's there, and if I were a hardcore masochist, I'd keep track of how many notebooks are strewn around there---I'm betting at least 50!---with stories and fragments of stories and diaries that lapsed and excuse me while I hyperventilate.
How much of this can I part with? What part is a given item going to play in my future? How do I decide? How do I organize what's left? And oh god what possessed me to do this as summer is starting, given that I have no realiable A/C?!
Who am I without my stories, indeed.
There's something I've been wrestling with for a while. Recently, AI gave a talk which asked the question, "Who would you be without your stories?" It dealt with the labels we've given ourselves and the amount of potential we have if we strip off those labels.
To me, it resonated on other levels. On a very primal level, as a writer who knows how futile pursuit of the Muse can sometimes be, it was terrifying. No stories? No charecters, no dialog, no plots? It's having my soul's scream echoing in a vast hollow wilderness. Thank goodness that's not the question, right?!
However, with the purge, it's very apropos---these things I need to get rid of carry pieces of my story. Sometimes it's the where---this flea market, that furniture store---or who---this yard sale with S, that outing with
missybrat. There are gifts and grab-bags, bargains and boondoggles. Memories stream over me: teenage obsessions curdled into middle-aged eccentricity, family vacations, tokens of those who are gone for this lifetime---is that china figurine really the best representative of my sainted Aunt Mary? Will my dad come back and haunt me if I find a better home for his flotsam of tools in the garage? I haven't done any ceramics in at least five years---maybe I can get rid of some of the molds and bisque---not to mention some of the projects I made when I was into it! Peter's VHS tapes...next month will be ten years since he passed, and I haven't watched most of them!
And the worst, the really scary part---all the welter of books and notebooks and magazines and brochures and catalogues and paperwork. Oh, Christo. *holds head* Another permutation of "my story". Stories in the sense of books that sounded interesting and have been gathering dust since I dragged them home, stories that were boxed and closeted and now I can barely get at them to see what's there, and if I were a hardcore masochist, I'd keep track of how many notebooks are strewn around there---I'm betting at least 50!---with stories and fragments of stories and diaries that lapsed and excuse me while I hyperventilate.
How much of this can I part with? What part is a given item going to play in my future? How do I decide? How do I organize what's left? And oh god what possessed me to do this as summer is starting, given that I have no realiable A/C?!
Who am I without my stories, indeed.
