She preferred the tightrope over the feather bed. I do not know her history well enough to tell you if she preferred the knotted rope over the death bed. I doubt that she did. I doubt she found herself locked up in her thoughts with only one grim escape. Because she wrote. She told stories and released the characters of her creation to create their own lives within the lives of others. She knew how to let go, not smother. And she probably wore excellent hats with feathers and ribbon.
And here is my thought: What if I just jot down the pieces and build the puzzle later? I expect a finished product from the start, but that design has no support and will simply collapse under pressure. There will be no picture, only rubble.
I need a net. I need a place to land when my footing is off. I will lay it out and then stand upright and walk. Where I end up, I do not know. It does not matter. The art lies in maintaining balance during the tension. The art lies not horizontal. The art tells the truth standing up.