POLL!! Typing Style

Hey Typosphere!

Had a frenzied typing session on the Skyriter tonight (oh yeah, if you didn't know it, mpclemens hooked me up with one of my grail machines in his cleanout... I'll get around to posting picturesnstuff eventually, promise), and I had this epiphany of a question, which may have already been asked, but what the hell. I'll ask it again.

What's your typing style?
(Can't figure out how to embed the poll in this post, so check it out at the top of the sidebar!)

Shifting

Dunno what it is, but there's a shift.
Shifting away from fiction.
Towards... I don't know.
No, not away from fiction.
Just away from the idea that came back and wanted to be worked on.
We're taking some time off.
We need our space.

It kinda feels like getting dumped, when an idea pulls away.
You give it so much time, so much energy, and then all of a sudden,
It's gone.
Not gone.
Just... ignoring you.
For the time being, at least.

I could go back, back to the collected past of ideas,
And pull something out of the pile and see what can happen.
But I don't know if I want to do that.
For so long, writing has defined part of my life.
Who I am.
What I do.

I don't remember the last drought period, but there has to be one.
I could check the books, find it,
And maybe I'll do that.
When I have the time.
If I ever have the time.
That's when I'll go back and find an idea to work on.

But until then?
Until then, the nebulosity of the new and unproven floats around.
Waiting.
Just waiting.
Forming.
Solidifying.
Congealing.
Maybe someday, they'll want to come out.

Until then, I'll just be.

Musings #?

I realized tonight that it's not just dance or ceramics that I miss. It's art, in all of it's forms. It's a fluidity of creation you don't necessarily get with writing. When you write, you don't so much touch it. The muscle memory stays on the page, rather than flying through the air, sliding along wet clay as it turns ever faster on the wheel. I miss the tactility of experience, of knowing what I see in front of me, what I watch in the mirror is me, an expression of everything inside. Words on a page may be the soul laid bare, but art is joy and light an unbounded expression of life.

No.

No. I mean it.