So I know it's a week after Easter and the fluffy bunny, sugary sweet metaphors are officially "un-seasonal" but I just had two of my brain cells knock together and come up with something interesting so bear with me while I indulge in some retrospective Easter motifs.
Life, especially for the creative minded, is like an Easter egg hunt. As a writer and an English Major turned nursing student turned completely confused floundering maniac, I have often felt that the answers to my creative cunudrums are somehow like those obnoxiously fluorescent goodies my parent's used to hide in bushes (thanks for the poison ivy, mom) or under flowers (and the bee stings) and that they were in some mythical magical "out there" and just waiting for the right inspiration to strike and voila everything would be solved. The words would runneth trippily from the tip of my feathery quill and I would be Shakespeare and people would quote me to sound smart and in a hundred years they'd suspect I was a cluster of many anonymous writers, and gay, and that perhaps I never existed at all but boy whoever wrote my stuff was awesome.
The more I attack the creative problems that assail both my manuscript and my life goals the more I realize that the playful Easter egg hunt is not so much external to myself. It's not OUT THERE. I'm the obnoxiously fluorescent egg (hopefully a blue one, I love blue) and inside me is the sweet seeds for a novel that will probably not be anything like Shakespeare, and maybe in a hundred years no one will read it. But for the time that I am here I should be giving a piece of myself, and not some inspiration from somewhere else. Furthermore that I have the power to solve my own problems, and that the control to form and embrace my future isn't as out of my control as I thought a little while ago.
This my friends, I think is what we call a turning point...and it's about time!
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