ABSTRACT
As you make a work, the work appears in a current form (much as a wave appears in a connected shape to the wave it will become, as it travels over the ocean) – evolving, but now in existence, partial perhaps, potentially subject to disappearing, momentarily incomplete. You leave evidence of your creating, imbue it (consciously and unconsciously) with your thoughts and feelings. Drafts, notes, correspondence. You started carrying a notebook when you were still in your teens. You still carry one today. It works as a guide to what you might write – though not all will make the page, some will remain in the background. As a creative writer, much of the evidence you leave is other writing, but there are photographs too, doodles, your vlog. If someone was seeking your work or who you are, they would find the date of your birth, your family tree, a list of classes you took in high school (you were, interestingly, better at History than you were at English). In your case, you didn’t go on to study Creative Writing in college but instead chose Archaeology. There is a record of your college classes too – and of that trip to Thunder Bay. ‘Lake Huron is particularly rich in marine wrecks’, you write in your travel journal. Your friends sometimes describe you as ‘energetic’. You think of yourself more as ‘animated’, kind of wound-up and moving. You dream of being considered ‘dynamic’.
