We had a lovely dinner out with friends last night, starting at Chubby's Tacos, continuing through a tour of our new massage space and ending at Ben and Jerry's. I've known the couple we were out with for a few years; this was Jessica's first true social engagement with them. We got along famously, discussed lying about food consumption and other things dear to our hearts, and plan further engagements over the summer and visiting them after they move to Guatemala (land of avocados and coffee) in August. Good times were and shall be had.
Over ice cream, the conversation turned to ayahuesca, and how both Sharon and I have an interest in having an experience with it. She asked why I was interested, and when she found my answer too vague, asked for an example.
I hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that I wonder if it would help me write.
I used to think that perhaps there was some sort of metaphorical subconscious demon I needed to slay in order to fulfill my dreams of writing, or if maybe there was a piece of my soul that was estranged from me at an early age that I need to reunite with to achieve the same end. Now it's more vague than that, a sort of "maybe it will help," hoping that it won't involve anything too scary. I don't like scary.
Admitting that was as scary for me as any demon I might meet, though. My heart raced, I felt an ache in my chest, I grew quiet for quite a while after my confession. I was moody for much of the rest of the evening after we got home.
I'm not very good at avoiding questions, particularly with friends I trust. Jessica suggested I come up with a stock answer so that I can keep my personal business as personal as I like when it comes to writing. That's probably a good idea.
Meanwhile, I have to wonder why it strikes such terror in my heart to even talk about it sometimes.
I think it has something to do with deciding to write when I was around 9 years old and still having little or nothing to show for it at 41.
Meanwhile, I am working on it. I've gotten up early the last two days and done some line editing of the first two chapters of Ari (the novel I wrote during NaNoWriMo this year). I must admit I'm a little lost about how to go about editing it, making sure the overall story arc is there, the subplots make sense, and that it weaves into a fairly interesting whole.
The Creative Writing MFA at NCSU requires not only a writing sample but letters of recommendation from three people who can speak to my writing and editing skills as well as my academic aptitude. My best bet is to take continuing education courses and rely on those teachers for the recommendations, as well as work on editing so that my novel sounds promising when I send the first couple of chapters to the English department at NCSU.
So this morning I looked up Duke Continuing Education's courses on creative writing, and there's a lovely sounding one . . . that starts in 4 days and costs $190. Why do I find these things at the last minute? I'd like to go ahead and get started with it now; procrastination is never helpful. But I haven't looked at courses at the local art centers yet, so hopefully they'll have something a little more affordable that doesn't start right away. At least I can make an informed decision at that point.
Abraham talks about getting into the Vortex before taking action, and while I'm hardly in the Vortex, I have to say that the thought of taking action, while scary, feels a lot better than the thought of not, which just makes me sad. So I'll count my pennies and keep looking for a doable course, editing a little every day and hoping to get into the swing of it soon.
Perhaps ayahuesca is the key . . .
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