if i was on target in my very first post “stories as an act of faith” – then my current confusion about rearranging my novella opening is a faith issue, and my hesitation, fear. i never know exactly how a story is going to right itself, i just dive in and begin. that is, i dive and begin if i am fearless about the outcome.
so what has happened here? i began to judge the work. it was a necessary stage; i had finished a draft and needed to show it. i received a compliment and a complaint from two of my most important literary companions. now, if i wish to become the fearless creator again, i must take off my hat of judgment and replace it with the hat my childlike artist wears, the little girl inside me, the essence of stacy for whom stories are an act of faith.
the fearless diving in, the discovery of truth that finds its way into my heart through the path of story, can only come when i am without the bondage of fear or comparison. and so i begin again, like an artist constructing a collage, and paint another layer across my canvas. i cannot tell this story, any story, with the guillotine of excellence hanging over my head. so i must leap in fearless, knowing only that i tell stories and that this one is unfinished, that this one has something more to say to me.