Dry Spell? But It's Raining . . .

This last month and a half I've been concentrating on some non-writing arts, specifically helping my daughter to shoot a short movie -- an enterprise that involves begging, borrowing, improvising, and otherwise wrangling production equipment of all sorts, re-learning everything I've ever known about lighting, sound, and cinematography, planning out details to a ridiculous extent (and leaving an even more ridiculous number of factors up to chance and dumb luck), and staying up WAY past my bedtime.

All of this means that, though my life itself has been something of a complex work of many moods and movements, I've managed to get very little written down on paper lately. So I haven't given it up  entirely -- or at all -- it's just that I've been getting my creative endorphin supply elsewhere. Wait a minute -- That makes me feel like an unfaithful junkie or something. But it's not like that at all!

Shooting should be wrapped up around February 1, and then my part is over and I can redirect that creative stream, that copious, spurting artery of, well, "art," to deposit its . . . well, that's an awful metaphor. How about:  ". . . and I can keep riding that gnarly wave of creative energy into a Maverick's of prose and poetry."

There are so many arts, and they're all so powerful and so much fun!