i'm still working my way through the artist's way. this week, our main assignment is reading deprivation. (my cyberfriend msafropolitan mentioned that this was where she called it quits, or some such.) though i've contemplated ignoring this assignment, i am dutifully NOT reading as much as possible given that i remember how useful this was at hedgebrook, allowing me to access a deeper level of my inner thoughts.

and since i can't read other people's work--books, newspapers, blogs--i'm taking the opportunity to read my own, which brings me to the title of this blog. since there's not much else to do (no facebook status updates, no twitter, no cnn news crack), i am finally going over something like six years' worth of writing, which also involves organizing six years' worth of writing.

i am outing myself as completely disorganized (and i have it on good authority that i'm not the only writer out there who is). i've been wanting to get my shit together for some time now, so i suppose that this seems like a very natural progression. but it is entirely unnatural for me to be mining my literary archives for whatever gems lie buried there. to sit and read and assess with care. to try to figure out what i meant when i wrote this or that, where i was in my head, in my life, whether there is some usefulness to it or it belongs rightly in the scrap heap.

i think i've struggled to feel good about my writing my entire life. i've actually hidden most of it away from inquiring eyes. julia cameron, of the artist's way, calls it the internal censor--the inner monster who says This is no good, get rid of it and start over. mine has been rather overactive, but i am shutting him up now.

there are entire lives and families and mini-universes buried in my laptop. it's quite astonishing. at least maybe some of them, by grace, will have a life outside the notebook. i pulled some words from the pile above:

everyday i wish to
know and
stimulate
the ancient miracle of flow,
inviting the
lost muse
home.

--AL.