like that bobcat
I want to be like this bobcat.
I want to gnaw on something, to turn it over and over, to let that one thing consume me as I consume it.
I am easily distracted. Nothing holds my attention for long. I flit from here to there, making a note of something so I can come back to it. And then I forget. The notes sit untouched, unremembered, unthought in desk drawers, pockets, and journals.
As I’ve mentioned, the thought of writing more seriously has been niggling at me. Colin and I met earlier this week for the first time in months to share writing. We talked about how similar the practice of writing is to the practice of piano: I wouldn’t expect my piano playing to get any better if I sat down once a week and played a this hymn or that piece. In fact, I’d expect it to deteriorate. Without intentional practice—and intentional practice on a certain piece—my piano playing will drop off.
But that’s what I do in writing: I write what seem like petty little things, unrelated, inconsequential. I don’t spend time with writing. Revising—never! I don’t enter into a piece, feel the characters, the sentences, the themes beside me. They get one measly glance and then I’m bored. I turn the page, pick a different song, close the lid to the piano. Drop the piece of meat and let it lie untouched.
But what if I were like that bobcat? What if I couldn’t let go?
Can I sustain that kind of attention?
(This post is one in a November series for NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. You can find the rest here!)