Changes

The first blooms of an early spring are sprouting.  There are so many mating animals in my backyard that I sometimes cringe witht he thought of all the naughty happenings within a few feet of my purview.  But alas, it is natural, I suppose.

I've been thinking about writing a lot lately.  I walk past the manuscript, with all the edits that need to be made, and I smile.  It's a bunch of work.  The sun is beginning to be more apparent in the sky, and sitting at the picnic table on my back deck with a red pen and a head full of creativity is so very appealing.

I cannot for the life of me begin to understand why I punish myself by not writing and finishing it all.  I texted my brother the other night and basically revealed that when I wrote the first three drafts, I didn't have the knowledge or life experience that I have now, and so I see the hard work I had put into as a pile of garbage.  Yet, when I read it over, I see that it is not garbage.

Maybe it's the mating animals, maybe it's the big sun in the sky, or maybe it's just that ache inside to just keep moving, and editing, and writing, and learning. 

I may never publish because I am always changing and so, I feel like I cannot stay stationary enough to finish the manuscripts I have going.  This might be one topic the "Write Your Novel" books do not address.

Yet, as always, I ask:  Does it matter? Does it matter if I ever finish it as long as I am continually recognizing the evolution of my heart?

I think it does.