You know how sometimes you're afraid to start writing your ideas down because then they'll really be down and you'll have the proof before your eyes of how thin your ideas are as opposed to simply quashing the niggling fear away by thinking of something else? It goes something like this in my head, 'idea! I should really flesh that out a bit. . . but what if. . . I SHOULD MAKE MUFFINS. WHAT A GREAT IDEA, I'LL USE THOSE LEFTOVER FROZEN RASPBERRIES AND TRY THE SPELT THIS TIME INSTEAD OF WHITE FLOUR.'
So I end up with a house full of muffins (butter tarts/chili/granola) but a computer void of Word documents. And that thin, narrow fear, still present, winding around my heart and nose-diving to my stomach- what if? what if? what if?
I feel like I have to name the fear here and then quickly overcome it. I have been writing, but my fingers stymie from nervousness and the words start to slow, the ideas become clunky wooden blocks where before they were neat, arrow-sharp. And I guess I would rather be mauled by a camel like my good friend Natasha Poly (disclaimer: I don't actually know Natasha Poly. But if I did I think she would be charmed by the moniker that pops into my head every time I see her- 'Natasha Polygon'- much as I imagine Anja Rubik would be delighted to be called 'Rubiks' Cube.' It's just the sense I get, y'know) than leave it unresolved any longer.
At least she looks foxy in her dealbreakers.
So my task today- and please keep me accountable somehow, blogosphere- is to write an abstract for the symposium I want to apply for and to write the ideas that ricocheted off Publics and Counterpublics down in a coherent little mass. And if it all tumbles downhill and I find myself surrounded by eggshells and vanilla essence. . . well. . . let's just hope for the best.