(This was a stream of consciousness piece from my Morning Pages)
Am I a novelist or a poet? Short fiction or non-fiction? Where do my skills lie? I'll never know until I try. Try a week concentrating on one, or a month. It's more than all you've ever done. Nothing to lose but something to gain so choose. Run with one for a while, don it as an outfit. Search the pockets, pull the threads. Make alterations. Dye it purple if it's red. Raise the hem. Change the buttons. See how each fits you truly, how smoothly your hand glides as you fill each sleeve. Try it in all weathers, not just your favourite or the most appropriate. Spill your lunch, your life, on it. Make it fit, and if it doesn't, try it on again at a later date when you've shed some pounds, those useless stories. It won't always be comfortable but it will always be yours.
What is your writer's outfit?
Is it made from maps, flowers, human hearts or history books? Is darkness woven in? Is it rough and modern or romantic and frivolous? Is it stitched with sci-fi or fantasy, a touch of Gothic horror at the collar? Do memory and madness shape the cut, the cuffs a touch philosophical, the lapels straight out of an Edwardian wardrobe? Are the pockets full of herbs or alien eyes or graveyard dirt or dragon teeth? Does the lining shimmer with fear, lust or mystery? Is the pattern drawn from heartache, humour or beauty? Is it elegant? Will it linger in the mind?
Design and craft your writer's outfit from the materials you obsess and yearn for, the memories you cherish or abhor, the fantasies that ribbon your consciousness. Cut it from a cloth of truth, well-worn. Wear it with conviction.
Wear it every day.
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