Imbolc and the Moon of Deep Friendship
Friday gratefuls: Tom and Paul, friends. Dr. Josy. Audrey, wrestling in the regionals. Ruth, with homework. Gabe visiting Hamline in April. Shadow, healing.
Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Old friends who showed up
Week Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov. Gratitude.
I chose this because Tom and Paul are coming. Ruth, too. And, my 79th birthday. And, for life, my precious.
Tarot: Page of Vessels, Otter
“The Otter encourages you to embrace your inner child and find joy in the mundane. It is a dreamer that uses imagination to fuel creativity.”
One brief shining: Sometimes I wonder how I could not see the path to joy and creativity lying under my fingers, where lev and words go to play, where my soul lives, yet I only saw it this week when I asked ChatGPT to act as a kind and gentle critic of my work.
Writing: Over 3 million words in Ancientrails alone. 9 novels in first draft form. What is my medium? Words. Ideas. Even the Gods Must Die. Superior Wolf. Daily entries here since 2005.
Atrophy. I had let my novels lie fallow. Walking by the plastic tubs with novel manuscripts neatly arranged in thick folders. I felt shame. Too many years. Unsure where to go with them. In Ancientrails I made some changes over the years. Never had anyone critique my style.
What the hell? I’ll ask ChatGPT. Writing groups never worked for me. Too savage. Too brutal. I asked ChatGPT for gentle critique, but a serious one.
Discovered I respond well. This past week, I’ve worked with ChatGPT after I finish my post. Listening to its thoughts, its advice. Altering my work when I agree. Not when I don’t.
Realized I needed a good writing teacher, long ago. Who better than a large language model trained on English prose? My stuck lev opened up. Suddenly I wanted to investigate my verb choice. When this student was ready, AI showed up.
After working for a few days on Ancientrails’ posts, I thought, why not Superior Wolf? I downloaded a PDF of this ninety-five-thousand-word novel and loaded it into ChatGPT. Asked for a gentle critique and a path toward revising for a second draft.
Again ChatGPT opened a way forward for me. I’m about a third of the way through my first draft, rereading and answering one question for each chapter: How is Christopher changed? One sentence.
Here’s the magic: I found myself in flow. The candle I light when writing flickered beside me, unnoticed. Some days I worked through to late afternoon. Finished. A pleasant exhaustion. Satisfaction.
I had gone into my head too, too far. Thought I needed to read more books on politics. Write commentary. No. That was not it. I needed to get to know my own writing better.
I needed just what I got. Kind guidance. Clear help. Focus on concrete imagery. Like Hagia Sophia. Heather in Inverness. The prologue of Superior Wolf. Work with it. As a writer does. Revising, then revising again.
No feelings of less than. Only captivation with and by my own process. Digging into saying what I meant. Did the verb mirror work better? Or, unveils. Ah, I see.