There’s a certain base-line level of courage required just to get out of bed some days… okay, most days. But that doesn’t mean we actually get any choice in the matter does it? We face the day, like it or not, bravely, or not.
I think creativity is an act of courage.
Making chevre stuffed figs wrapped in proscuito was a little bit brave… but really how bad could it possibly have turned out?
They were, in fact, fantastic.
Trying to write a historical romance for nanowrimo risks a little more. It could be a waste of a whole month of mad writing and relationship-risking (nanowrimo always is a little bit rough on relationships, regardless of your genre).
My third courageous act recently wasn’t particularly creative, but I had no real choice in the matter:
Yesterday I went to the prefecture, by myself… in the dark. I speak basic french but I’m nowhere near fluent. My feeble attempts combined with eager friendliness are usually enough, but government agencies are meant to be all official and french-only, on principle, so I was nervous about going alone.
I was also nervous about the discomfort of standing in line for hour upon hour.
I got there at 7.30 in the morning, in the dark. I mucked around on my phone, getting annoyed at the slow internet access, until it got light. And then I read novel. The prefecture opens at nine and it took another hour and a half to get in the door. And then there’s a shorter queue, less than half an hour, before you get sent to another line, in the appropriate department. That line took maybe half an hour.
To cut a long story short, after four hours I came away with aches and pains and a titre de sejour – essentially ten years french residency! I can work. I can leave the country and come back. I am free!
So, my bravery paid off. Here’s hoping my historical romance is at least good for my writing craft.