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digging out the well

I've been having trouble writing. (This is not new. This has not been new for a year. Between everything, and the slightest suggestion that I oughtn't to be writing to my passion, that I haven't the authority to be doing so, and my self-protective function declares that I shan't do that in public, then.)

In the absence of eloquence of the written word, my pen hasn't stayed still. At chicken camp, I started doodling. I started sketching the chickens, because it had been too long since I'd been in the presence of chickens to draw them, and I'd forgotten basic facts of chicken anatomy, like the eyebrows, and exactly where to draw the ear.

I started, and I found myself unable to stop. Soon enough our trainer had started putting some of them into the presentations. I was drawing again, and it was wonderful.

I went to court to watch history for myself, because you never do quite get it right in your own head when you've had it through a filter, not just exactly so, not unless you know the quality of the lens that the observer's bringing to bear and how to run the transform algorithm to skew it back to true. I brought along the sketchpad on a whim.

I showed you what happened. The creativity went WHAM again, and took me bowling along with it.

Today was the last day for the witnesses. It'll be a month before closing arguments. Tonight was the President of the US's State of the Union speech. I watched him on my little computer screen, streaming CSPAN, and my fingers twitched. There, that angle of head, that quirk of mouth, that moment, that one, that repeated pose. Capture them. Make them mine. I didn't fetch my pen and paper, but I wanted to, and given more time I might yet have.

I'd not been seriously drawing since high school, since the doodles at the call center.

If I can't write, I'll draw. Creativity must have its outlet.

Crossposted. comment count unavailable comments.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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