If another came to me with similar frustration, I would spew words of comfort and suggest not to force the story. I have started two other projects and if there is a need to write, clearly I could work on one of those projects that are more structured - more calm - more receptive to development. But yesterday i was poked with a notion. And this notion screamed into my brain that I must include it within the octopuses. It's relevant! It's key! I need to handle this story point gently but with intelligence. THIS is going to be the thing that softens the intention of the octopuses. THIS IS THE THING!
But I'm stuck. I haven't the skill to communicate these flashes of brilliance. So my mind wanders to so many other things. My body is immobile, and I sit with the laptop on my knees, working on analytics for the nine to five paying my bills while i am watching videos to expand my knowledge of retention ponds and gypsum stacks and mining processes. I'm making notes and typing words into the octopus files. I'm tangling, not unraveling. And I'm questioning if this is the process by which I produce clarity in my words?
What seems a lifetime or two ago, i was asked how I knew something of which i wrote. What seemed to me a tiny little bit of knowledge that I held in the back of my brain, had a reader so inquisitive they did some research and found I had not fabricated science in my work of fiction, but wrote some real-deal interesting stuff about how the brain worked. My response at the time, (vocally), "I don't know how i knew that." (silently) 'Doesn't everyone know about the pineal gland and glial cells?' And this exchange replays in my memories every now and then. In my literary journeys I have been puzzled by a word here or there and looked stuff up to fully understand a passage. I've always been insecure of my own intelligence, knowledge, wit.... all of the things that make one look upon another with the thought that they are 'smart.' And by no means do I pretend to be any more 'smart' than i am. Truly I'm just a nerd who regurgitates that which I find interesting. After all, worse than being unintelligent is being uninteresting.
So a heavy sigh escapes my lips as the mindfulness of intention with the octopuses presents itself once again in my forethoughts. They've been swimming in my head for years now and i can blame time and effort for the incomplete story. But then this inspiration comes. And I can't figure out how to lay out the words just yet, but it's there. And I'm trying to honor the process and I'm trying to give myself time to actually understand logistically how this works into the story. And I'm trying not to force myself to write, but just stay in this 'research' phase.
But there's that poke and prod to get some words in order. Get some story development going in tandem with the research. Another heavy sigh. Followed by a look into the sunlight peeking through the seam of curtains on the windows. Realization that four pages of notes IS writing. I am working. I am moving - maybe not moving forward - but I need to give myself credit for moving in a direction of completion. For crying out loud, the ending hasn't even presented itself yet!
So, I'm walking away. I'm taking my notebook for some more notes as I walk through the next hour or two away from the computers. But I'm walking away. And I'm not going to beat myself up for abandoning this or other projects while my brain is not in the place to work effectively on words.