It turns out I am writing a novel. The first such attempt in maybe 13 years. I had forgotten – hiding in my scripts and what they demand of me – that this process plays a different instrument inside. I hear a different music.
Another thing, quieter and much, much stronger, is happening. And I know (knowing myself) that it’s a process – like unfettered music listening – I have swerved to avoid all many shapes of things which are, again, inside.
And I know it’s a process, like uninhibited painting, that is, remains, unequivocally me.
And that it’s a process where others’ judgements are not at all relevant.
From the marvellous etymological dictionary:
Make: Old English macian "to give being to, give form or character to, bring into existence; construct, do, be the author of, produce; prepare, arrange, cause; behave, fare, transform," from West Germanic *makōjanan "to fashion, fit" (source also of Old Saxon makon, Old Frisian makia "to build, make," Middle Dutch and Dutch maken, Old High German mahhon "to construct, make," German machen "to make"), from PIE root *mag- "to knead, fashion, fit."
Work: meaning "artistic labor" or its productions is from c. 1200
Bringing something into existence. Where – for now – ego is redundant and listening is crucial.
Nothing is new 😉