Sifting through untold catalogues of incomplete tales...anecdotes, hand-scrawled notes, and homeless paragraphs...disjointed ideas and scattered lines like disembodied apparitions...vague, restless spectres of a life that I once claimed as my own.
Reliving these exploits, revisiting these people and places, and replaying my cruelly accurate memories... laughing and crying all over again... retracing my steps, reveling in all of the gains and mourning all of the losses... tearing open the old wounds and bleeding their contents out onto the page... discovering new insights, missed resolutions, and additional questions.... reflection, introspection, and catharsis.
I'm not the same person I was then, nor am I same person who first thought enough to write them down. I'm a different creature entirely, seeing through different eyes, thinking with new perspectives... writing, rewriting, bridging the gaps, filling the holes, struggling to bind together these fragmented pieces of the story, told by so many past incarnations of myself, that they hardly seem compatible with one another.
Start from the beginning, work in real time, write it all down as I relive it, and seek not an end. Looking ahead, staring into the cavernous void of expectation... the dark, bottomless chasm of some perceived completion is but a trap. It will only stupefy and block me... keeping me frozen in a perpetual state of doubt and fear.
Cease this compulsive analysis. Resist asking so many questions. Cast away the shackles of premeditation. Break the bonds of structure. Abandon the useless quest for motivation and reason. Am I here to simply ponder my subconscious or am I here to get the job done? A writer who doesn't write is nothing more than a dreamer, and the world is already overflowing with silent, motionless dreamers.
Stop thinking so much and just write the fucking story.
I often prefer the company of animals, the misunderstood and unwanted creatures in particular. Generally speaking, they are far more beautiful, more interesting, more honest, and more useful than most of the people I've known; and more often than not, it's the smallest and the seemingly most insignificant of them which have the most compelling stories. These wondrous little beasts are not pests or intruders. They are my friends and neighbors.