I'm searching for my voice again because I'm tired of one liners, and holding myriad ideas inside my head for fear of being laughed at, over the embarrassment of being so open, and how much effort it takes to write well, but really, I mean really, what am I waiting for?
Can I possibly write about my life if my parents haven't written about theirs? My grandparents never did but their stories have defined me, guided me, and those stories are shared with love and longing. But if I don't write things down, my kids will never be able to tell my stories because all the best action takes place inside my imagination.
I justify my kind of open daily journal to myself by saying it is a way for me to explore my inner life, where, if you follow Proust, I have understood that every moment, any moment, contains a universe, contains all time, contains the entirety of my personal history and, if given the space to unfold, will reveal all. I can easily see that each moment of each person's life contains a story worth telling in its infinitely expanding detail.
And I do believe that every moment is like this. I really do. And I believe that every drawing is like this, too.
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