It seems I still am chunking it, writing bits and pieces that are unrelated, scattered like a shotgun at the world. Perhaps my mind is wizened by age and not the wiser, unable to focus to any depth on more than a single topic. Freed a bit from months of slow and steady grieving, I try to do the things I’ve left undone. But these are tasks more automatic, practical; impossible to do, though, with shrouds of clouds within the brain.
Creativity, for me, means utter and complete absorption, dedication and delight to the exclusion of all else. When in its midst I do not sleep, it may instead be said I faint from lack of rest. Food is tasteless or forgotten as I pass through time not counted by the minutes, hours or days but flowing all from a beginning of a story to its end.
I must get back to that, that mental state of unawareness of the world.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology