Work & Play

The two diverge and intersect for me in strange ways.  Writing is my work.  I want to write; I think about writing all the time, and when I'm not, I'm writing in my head, going over key scenes that I can so vividly picture I can sometimes smell them.  And yet, in an odd, cringing sort of way... I don't. 

Gardening is also my work.  It's not so much that gardening brings me joy as that I need it simply to maintain my baseline - to ward off unhappiness.  I just arranged two ornamental Boston Ferns around the yard, transplanted a blackberry root, three herbs, and bean and pea seeds, then gave everything a good drink of water.  All this after working the morning shift, which entails multiple hours on my feet and constant lifting.

Next I'll probably tinker with a flashcard app I found and am using to memorize the meanings of Tarot cards.  I want to be able to do a reading without flipping through the little booklet.  This is a course of study, a form of work, and yet I am as willing to do it as if it were play. 

Perhaps it's the mental props I developed last summer that are tripping me up and draining my confidence when confronted with a blank page that is supposed to form into story.  But perhaps those frameworks are just a shield for my ego.  Perhaps I don't truly believe that my writing will hold any importance to anyone but me, and who am I to count? 

Perhaps I should just stop thinking about it and do it, but that's so much more easily said than done.