Books Keep Us Free

There are quite a few books that I have had the pleasure of reading that have brought me a new depth and perception to my life that I never could have thought possible.  There are numberless books that have changed me.  There are so many many books that have caused me to lose hours and hours of much needed sleep, while I either read them, or relived them in my head.  There are only a few that have changed me, given me a new depth, and caused me to lose sleep not because I wanted to, but because I was haunted by them.

Hiroshima by John Hersey was a book that left images in my mind and heart that haunted me for a week afterward.  When I think of that novel, I feel the breath leaving my body, as if my lungs no longer work.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.  The difference of this novel is that it is a work of pure fiction.  So I was able to eventually crawl out of the abyss this one threw me into.  However, what happens to the main character in this novel is an occurrence that happens much too often when it should never even be a whiff of imagination.  Young girls preyed upon, obsessed by, kidnapped, raped, murdered and the people who get away with it.  It is nothing one should ever have to know about, much less experience.  And the families left behind, torn apart by the not knowing and the evil that such a mark can leave on the world.  This work left me aching for those who have been through this, whether or not they survived.  It left me aching for families that were shattered by these things, and made me, as a mother, a basket case for quite some time.

The book I just completed yesterday is in the same mold.  The Librarian of Auschwitz by Antonio Iturbe. You can hear all the horrors and the heroic events of such a time, but it never prepares you for when it impresses itself upon you like a vice.  The images and the events spin around in my head like a whirlwind.  To imagine those who lived through it and had to carry on such horrifying nightmares from which most of their family never survived... there are no words that can comprehend it.  But there are words that can try.  This one mixes fiction with nonfiction, but to be honest, you knew when you were reading fiction and when you simply were not.

I couldn't even rate it on good reads because I could never say whether it was a good thing to have read it or not. I could never say I recommend it.  I could never say, "Read this, you'll love it." Because it terrified me. While immersed in its pages, reality felt like a dream that was too good.  I could barely comprehend the polar opposite that it was. Even now, I am left with these pieces of myself that I have to figure out how to reassemble.  And I know that when I am done, the picture will not be quite the same.

Each of these books has left a mark that will not come off.  I respect them for that, I thank them for that.  But I will never read any of these three books again.  I cannot experience them again.

I think of what I will write, and I think of why, and I know.  These books, this last one in particular, remind me of that.

The Case of Re-entering Normalcy

Life after vacation does not exist.  It is the void that you step into when you think there are no more stairs.  There you are, falling into nothingness and there is no semblance of a floor that will not jar your joints into oblivion. 

When you go on vacation, they always talk of the anticipation, the planning, the execution, the joy of returning to your own home and bed, and even the "jet lag" you may get even without switching time zones.  What they fail to warn you of is the lack of motivation lasting for weeks afterward.  The inability to comprehend not just falling back into your routine, but falling back into your life as it exists.

Who knew depression existed on the other side of fun?

When I returned that first night, I was so excited to get back into writing.  And then the next day happened. I came home, and plodded through my evening, sat down to rest and relax, to eliminate the need to "do" anything.  And did just that.

Eliminated doing anything. For days.  Weeks.  I existed. I slept, ate a little, worked, came home, existed, slept, ate a little, worked... and that was who I was.

Even my children seemed to fall into the routine of nothingness.  Today, after missing my alarm because of all of our contagious nothingness, I arrived to work an hour and a half late and we all finally decided that this nothingness was dangerous.  So we did something today.  We did something this evening.  We cleaned or cooked or even did a few crafts.  And now, now I want to write. 

It's been welling up inside of me.  And once again, I find myself here, painting on a canvas that is no longer blank because I dared to splash it with color.  I love this part.

Snickerdoodles and Summer Journals

My mind is always racing with all I need to do to get from A to B. It reels and rams itself over and over into more and more to-dos and lists and whats and whys.  I often cause more anxiety than there actually is because I am so afraid to miss something that is seemingly important but in the vastness of life, is nothing of note. 

Right now my mind is sifting from one moment to the next, preparing for a summer vacation that is on our horizon.  My list of items to accomplish grows longer by the second and more intimidating than facing a firing squad. 

Writing is a way to slow all of it down.  To stop it all, leave life hanging in midair, and move into a realm where anxiety does not exist for me.  There are times when anxiety in my writing comes out.  When I think of timelines of how long it will take to do something, or when I want to set my "deadline" and I cannot make it.  That is when I realize that I am squeezing out the creation and inspiration, and inflate my writing with superfluity.  It's all hot air.

And when it is filled with hot air, it is time to let it go: let it rise up and away into the sky while you watch from below.  And when it is hidden in the clouds shaped like Donald Duck or a rhino in a bath, you turn your attention back to what it has always been meant to be.  Your sanity, your worlds, your dreams and hopes.  And lay out the story once more and continue onward.

If only I could apply this to my actual life.  Now there is an idea.

Post-School Year Races

Making it to the end of a school year with children feels much like trying to run a marathon with kids strapped to your back, front, and lagging behind you in a wagon while you carry all necessary school supplies.  Somewhere along the line, you wonder if all this crap is worth it.  And you begin to wonder why in the world everything has to be left to the end: the recitals, the awards ceremonies, the events in which everyone MUST be there. 

This chaos did little to allow me the freedom to express myself.  Instead, I was up late cramming for spelling tests, washing laundry for much needed said events, making dinner, planning for Summer fun, and on and on.  This didn't even involve the normal life that inevitably occurs between all this. 

When exactly am I supposed to find time to write? Oh, that's right.  Somewhere in between the hours of never and ever.  And this pulls me off the rails. 

At least my runs aren't for nothing, that is, when I can get them in.  My brain just fills with my world and off I go.  Why have they not invented a DragonSpeak bluetooth for runners that downloads automatically to a phone?  Not that I could afford it anyhow, but it's sure fun to dream.

And now, a few days after it has all finally washed over us: the end of another school year, I sit peacefully at the foot of my sleeping children and write.  What bliss I feel as my hands stream across the keyboard and fill a white space with words. 

Words not of pure imagination, but words to charge the spirit and warm the blood.  That is the spark and the page is the kindling.  Off I go to warm myself by the fire inside.

Jumping from Draft 2 to 3.5

Combining drafts is more difficult than I thought.  Merging thoughts sometimes don't merge as smoothly as you would think, particularly when they are from the same person on the same subject, but delivered at different points in a timeline.

And so the inner struggle continues to weave together, ever stronger, the lines between the lines within the lines.  Sometimes I wonder if I am giving too much or too little all the time and all at once. 

This is forever a struggle in all I do, and when it occurs in my work, I wonder where I am going to land.

I have felt so ahead and so behind in everything. I know this cannot make sense to the vast majority of you, but truly I am pushing and I am pulling simultaneously.  And somehow, while I do this, I see my reflection working backward.  This is a fun house of thoughts.  I feel trapped and enlightened. I only hope I can remain this positive in the end.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

The Ties That Bind Tripped Me

The trick isn't about creating new problems. It's about solving the existing ones.  When I'm editing, I feel that my subconscious is trying to maneuver through the problems while my conscious self is consistently getting itself into trouble.

How do you disentangle yourself when you end up tied into knots in your jump rope?  I had an epiphany last night after writing on how to get myself out, but I was so incredibly exhausted, I couldn't put enough thought together to integrate it in properly.  So I had to just pray I'd remember how to weave my magic today almost 24 hours later.

Tip: That's not the best course of action.  If you have any drive or alertness in the fiber of any of your being, summon it and get back to work.  Unless you realize you are entangling yourself more.  Then abandon all hope and hide in a corner, sucking your thumb until morning.  Then repeat process.

Oh goodness me, what have I gotten myself into?  Why did I think I could summit such a monstrous thing as this?  It's not like it's just a book or anything...

What are your methods to undo a mass of knots and tangles in a section of a story?  Where you felt inspiration but conveniently ended up painting yourself into the far corner without a bathroom?

Any comments and suggestions are always welcome.  I'm going to make another attempt.  Let's see how this goes.

Rocket Man

Zero hour: 9 a.m.

For some reason this song seems so perfect right now.  I'm not the man they think I am at all.  I feel like I'm walking around my small little nook of the world carrying a piece of me that no one knows about.  That is, besides those who know me very well.  Besides my immediate family and a few very close friends, who truly knows me?

Who truly knows the worlds inside me? Who truly sees what lies hidden within my mind, my heart, my fingertips?

I am so fortunate that so many have paved the way in revealing their stories.  I am blessed to have been allowed access to so many other authors' dreams.  Take a moment and just think of all the books you have read, the stories you've heard, the lives and love and loss you've shared in them.  Think of who they came from.  We know so much more about humanity and its beauty than we realize.

Pick up a book, and you are picking up a piece of a person.  You are sharing in their thoughts, their hopes, their tragedies.  You are allowing a piece of them to become a piece of you.

I am in awe, and my heart aches. My fingers aren't fast enough, my mind isn't strong enough, and I weep. 

I am always going, unwilling to give up no matter the amount of time it takes.  But I have never felt so heavy and so light as when I contemplate how far I have come and how far I have yet to go.  I take a deep breath, let it out as I collect myself. And I continue on. 

Staring at Nothing

And I wonder: what will it be like tonight? What will I write, what will I advent? The whole point of this exercise, this post tonight is to roll the dough out underneath my fingers and get it nice and thin.  Roll out the creativity before me, get it nice and spread out before me so all I can see are my words and my worlds and then I can begin to etch them out of the vastness before me.

The point is to take it all and cast my normal everyday aside so I can pull from the depths of myself and find my characters waiting to show me what they've been up to since I was away and where it is all going to go someday.

I feel the waves begin to crash further into the shore.  The tide is still coming in.  Soon it will falter and the tide will begin to wash back out.  I must ready my vessel, so I can ride out with the going tide and sail upon the waters in this brisk beautiful moonlight.  The stars above will guide me.

And so it goes, and so it goes. And so it will always go.

Sleeping Sisters

While two little ones drift into dreams beside me, I, myself, drift into a waking dream of a world I've spun.

While two nestle and snuggle into their rest, their breathing slowing and evening into a soft whisper of waves upon the Eastern shore, my breathing slows and evens as I envelope myself into my written word.

While their bodies relax and the lullaby plays out into silence, my body relaxes and the silence blossoms into the narration of my heart.

As they slumber in the peace of the room, my soul alights in the fire of inspiration, and I am awakened in my verse.

I have waited all day and late into the evening for this...

Blackberry Lemonade

I've had some flights of fancy, finding the inspired winds and allowing myself to flow along them like a leaf caught up in the trail of it all.  And I've had my moments where I, the leaf, have gotten entangled in a branch and had to painstakingly extricate myself and wait again for that wind to blow.

It has been wondrous and chaotic and adventurous and worrying and more.  I am enraptured in it all because on it goes and on it flows.  So long as I keep coming back and doing all I can maybe someday I can do it everyday, all day and late into the night if need be.  And no longer would I be shackled to the idea of hiding away myself in order to "be the adult."

I may be an adult, but still will I forever dance in the rain and watch the wind flow through the leaves of the tree on a blanket in Spring.  Still will I forever be me and that I will never change.  Still will I forever dream, and still will I forever wish on a dandelion star, and still will I gaze at the stars above and wonder about the heavens beyond.

That is who I am.  That is who I always will be.  And that is my writing.  How I hope for it to be.

But without hard work, I know, nothing grows but weeds (Quote taken from the great mind of Gordon B. Hinckley).

A Storm's Beguiling

I was speeding along so quickly yet not quickly enough for my own whirlwind of inspiration.  And then it came.  Blowing in from the west southwest, came a storm wrapping our home in lightning, thunder, wind, and rain and taking our electricity with it.

It attempted to steal my fire with sirens keening somewhere amidst the storm, barely heard but sounding nonetheless.  My husband and I gathered our half-asleep children into the bathroom and we camped out for 20 minutes on the floor with our pillows and blankets.

Finally the sirens ceased, we put our children to bed and the storm finally began to ease somewhat so I could continue with my writing, albeit still without power.

Thankfully my computer still had a 31% charge.  So I finished out my chapter and was forced to call it a night.

The adventure was within and without my mind.  But thankfully both sides came out faring well on the other end.

Another chapter is down in a new edit.  And now I begin the next.  The prospect is most exciting,
and the sparks from my fingers are beginning to fire once more.

The Gossamer Touch

Oh Lois Lowry, how your magical writing inspires me!

I feel the touch, the touch of the author's hand.  It is stronger in me than it has been in a long time.  I haven't felt this clear about a path in writing since I wrote a short story called The Loose Thread.  I wrote it in one edit*.  And there it was for all to see. 

*I have since edited the story here and there so don't ever think anyone is that good.  But at the time, I went over and over and over it and could find little to edit in the story.  I will say that the majority of edits with that story were grammatical errors and sentence structure.

Do you have a moment, a tempered flash of when that clarity hits? It is a rare thing and I feel led by a hand other than my own.  I merely try to keep up.

Reveling in Readership

You know that time when you feel that you've rediscovered something wonderful? That moment when joy and glee and light and wonder just touches you once again.  Reading is just heaven.

It makes me want to write.

In joy and glee and light and wonder, I write.

My Mourning Period

Here I am again in the Overland.  And I'm at a loss as to what to do with myself.  I just finished reading quite a wonderful series: five books worth.  The first book I read, well listened to would be more accurate, while driving to and from my sister's home last month.  It was a 5-6 hour drive, and my husband was sweet enough to pick up some audio books for me to listen to on the way there and back.  I had seen this "new" series at the book store and realized it was an author I deeply enjoyed.  So my husband, the wonderful man that he is, found the first book in the series for me to listen to on my trip.

This last weekend, I was finally able to finish the last of the books in the series.  Relax, the series has been finished (Thank goodness!).  I guess the series wasn't as new as I thought. Now...

...what? What do I do with myself? I am here all alone, with the aftermath of a masterful story with strong characters and beautiful writing... and I feel like a lost fawn in the valley; alone, scared, and I have no idea what I am supposed to do now.

It is always a running joke in reading circles, that after a wonderful book or series of books, readers often find themselves facing the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I felt like I hit all of those stages instantaneously. Denial that I was finished.  Anger at where it leaves us and that there are not any more to savor.  Bargaining with myself that I will buy them and keep them and read them over and over.  Depressed that it is over and there are no more and will never be anymore.  And now acceptance, that I loved them and I can go back to them whenever I want and love them for what they are.

Now I bounce back and forth between all 5 like a pinball machine until I can find a new novel or series of novels to invest myself into.  That is the hardest part.  Letting go.

I satisfy myself with the knowledge that I will always go back and think over and over and over them in my mind until I am satisfied that I have gleaned everything I can into my memory banks.  And when possible, read them again and again and again until they are etched into my brain.

So where have I been? Immersed in the great Underland of Suzanne Collins.  Her first series of books, mind you.  And I loved every moment of it.  They are wonderful, and it is a fantastic allegory for our lives and who we can choose to be despite what everyone says we must be.  Especially for a series written for 9-12 year olds.

Now where will I go?  I aim to use this push to re-immerse myself into my own world and push until I have stretched it into the wonderful shape I know it can be. That's the beauty of writing your own novel: you can live inside that world for as long as you want.  But don't forget that the best way to make it real is to write it, edit it, and watch it take shape.  I wonder how those 5 stages of grief will strike when I finish.

one true sentence

"All you have to do is write one true sentence.  Write the truest sentence you know." ~Ernest Hemingway

You make it sound so easy.  Lies! Deceit! Construct! Truer words never spoken.  Farther lies the one true sentence.  How do you write it so?

Ernest Hemingway makes me feel like I can be Shakespeare, but I fall short of even slush pile material.  So what is one true sentence? And how do I reach such a place?

Be true. That is the only true sentence I know that he means.  Be true to your dream, your heart, your you, and that is where you shall find the truest sentence you know.

The map is drawn though spun only in riddles.  Like a cliched Goonie adventure, we are now on the hunt for the cave dwelling elusive ideal that shall be hidden deep within the most obvious of places.  It will be where it shall always have been.  Where you started and where you end.

That true sentence only you can know, as only I can know as well.  It can never be shared, but must be given to the world.  Because if not, the Sun will darken and grow cold.

Do you know what I know? Have you sought the truth?
The truest sentence you know?

I can speak in riddles
or sing in rhyme,
but still Queen Mab will never divine
                the words most spoken of honest sublime.
We cannot, nor will not,
                share the secret he spoke.
For Hemingway means you to discover your own.

Write one true sentence.  The truest sentence you know.  It is yours to know,
and ours to find.

You better get started
for life is mere time.

A Touch of a Master

I am in awe of the artist who looks at a blank canvas and sees the masterpiece it will become and then, tracing the lines in their mind, brings it to life in a spine-tingling thrill.  I am struck dumb by the musician pulling notes from his head straight through the instrument in his hands in an array of bewitching notes that entrance even the foulest of creatures.  I am overcome by the magnificence of the sculptor, revealing the beauty of the intricate and detailed beast within the craggy slab of stone that once lay before all, shapeless and sad. 

All are feats that make the most proud of men lowly and humbled by such inspired creations.  And like all artists, I bend backward and forward, looking at the blank paper before me and working to discover what it is that lies beneath the blanket of shapelessness that so many others see, so that I can reveal the beauty of it that all others would miss.

It is a push and a pull.  We are ever the curious, the scientists of creation, attempting to discover the undiscovered, to describe the indescribable, and to attempt the impossible.  We push boundaries that we will learn to never push again, we find caverns that lead to other worlds, and we feel the wind in our fingers and the rain on our faces more than all others would dare to experience. 

I am excited to be blessed with the gift to see past the lines on a page.   I may long to see the master canvas before its painted and the vase before its spun, but I can weave a world in my mind that no one else can see.  It is up to me to share.

And every day I think of what the world has yet to see in me, I ache to make my fingers all the lighter and swifter in their strokes.

Oh if I create it, and still they will not look?  Then I will dance among its forests and be the master storyteller in its midst, dreaming of worlds upon worlds without a care in this one.  And that is how it shall be.

Know New Now

When working yourself up to starting the new edit, you can look into the mirror and try the positive affirmation talk. You can do 30 push ups and sit ups and chest thumb yourself or chest bump your friends.  You can eat a pint of ice cream and wallow in the upcoming challenge for a moment. Or you can just continue on like Professor Binns, the Hogwarts Magical History professor.  After he died, he just kept right on going; never cease to chance a thought as to what you are attempting to accomplish.  Whichever and however you are, just don't stop.  It's a trap to stop.

Getting trapped can set you back weeks, days, hours, months.  Does it really matter how long?  Keep it in your heart and your mind.  If you have to take a physical breather, do so if you must.  But don't stop writing in your head.  

Within my mind is where I flesh a lot of my story out.  I know it's not the most efficient, but I've decided that if it's not important enough to remember (or write down the moment I think of it), well, then it is not meant to be and so must be left by the wayside for the scavengers to pillage.  

I only know that you keep going. You keep writing, you keep editing, you continue onward.  It will always be an uphill battle.  All the best things are.  And such battles are uphill all the way to the end, even past the final word.

That is what I tell myself because that is what I believe. I love my writing and I love the opportunity to write, but it is true, what Ernest Hemingway said, 'All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.'

Bleed, I must, or I am not giving enough of myself to my work.

And so I bleed.  And so I bleed.

Silver

One of my other favorite poets besides e.e. cummings is one that often overlooked because he was known to write poetry for children.  But what I've found is that this man understands more about the human condition than most of his more "notable and mature" colleagues.  I grew up on his poetry and books.  His wit, humor, and composition are all some of the best moments of my young reads.  I still find myself reciting a poem of his when the occasion calls for it, which is much more often than I've ever truly realized.

While I still have yet to purchase all of his collection, which is an intention of mine, most assuredly, I also am in love with the fact that one of my daughter's first choice books to read to me is my favorite of his, called The Giving Tree.

And now that I am older, I understand it that much more.  By the time I am very old, I'm sure I will understand it utterly.

And so I share my rendition of A Light in the Attic.  An homage to this brilliant author who will always top my list.

A Light In the Attic

There's a light in the attic
But no one seems to be home.
There's a light in the attic
but who says it's even turned on?
I'm sure it's not lit
Because I checked on it myself
Just a moment ago, so I'd know.
There's a light in the attic
And no one's home.
So no one come over
'Cuz I just want to be alone.


His much better rendition can be found below:

A LIGHT IN THE ATTIC 

There's a light on in the attic. 

Though the house is dark and shuttered, 

I can see a flickerin' flutter, 

And I know what it's about. 

There's a light on in the attic. 

I can see it from the outside, 

And I know you're on the inside . . . lookin' out. 

-Shel Silverstein

Earn It

When you finish the experience that a new story brings you, oftentimes you are left to ponder the consequences it has left upon you.  The consequences of how it weakened you, and the consequences of how it strengthened you.

I finished a wonderful story that begins and ends with the meaning and truth behind true sacrifice.  So many people believe that sacrifice is something negative.  It is something that you must give up and lose to get something you feel that you need.

They think that it is buying a stuffed bear to give to a crying child, or it is working a job you despise in order to put food on your table.  And not even that much food.

However, to truly understand what sacrifice is, you have to be willing to learn and to understand.  You have to have the desire to come to see things as they truly are and can be.  That sacrifice isn't giving up something to get something you feel you need.  It's not giving a child a toy to keep them from crying, it's giving them your stuffed bear to soothe them and see them smile and giggle and laugh.  It is working hard at a job to come home at the end of the day and enjoy the fruits of your labor with those that you hold most dear.

Sacrifice is giving up what you think you want for something so much more than you can imagine: what you truly need.  And understanding that no sacrifice is worth giving up those you love for anything.

It was truly an amazing story and it strengthened me, and it weakened me.  It strengthened my resolve to protect and love and care for my family.  It strengthened my resolve to work hard at my dream and never give up, no matter what.  To find a way no matter how difficult it may be, even if you keep having to get back up and start over again and again and again.

And it weakened me because I am human.  And I will be thrown down again and again no matter how hard I work to achieve something.  I will always get knocked down.  And the more important the matter is, the more I can expect resistance.  That is difficult to accept.  But if I keep getting up, I will never, never lose.  And sacrificing my right now, my small and meek endeavors, can turn into so much more.

Dreams are amazingly powerful things.  They are what created our homes, our cities, our entire world.  But a dream at the cost of that which is most important is a mere empty stupor.  It is cold and meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

I want my dream to mean something.  I want to learn from the sacrifices I made to earn it.

Waltzing Matilda

Thought I'd run out on you, huh? 'Tis I, back again, to haunt this blog forevermore. 

It is amazing, both the work and the joy one receives at seeing their child learn to read.  Oftentimes, I groan inwardly simply because well, she chooses the stories and sometimes they are the same book and I long to hear another.  Other times, I groan because she just doesn't want to exude any true effort and looks to me to sound out the words, acting as though she is inept.  This is when it truly gets upsetting.  She is so capable and she sells herself short (hmmm, I think I may know someone else who seems to do that).

And then there are those moments, when it is pure joy and bliss and everything wonderful you dreamed and more.  Those are the short suspended reality moments that you work for.  Though tonight I wanted to groan inwardly, I decided to take an opportunity and let her read the two books she chose, and then I pulled out one that I wanted to read to her.

Normally I would read to all my children but the toddler is more interested in discovering what else can make noises on this brick surface while the wonderful five year old took herself to bed (don't ask me, she does it all the time once she begins to feel sleepy). 

We actually started Matilda, written by Roald Dahl, a few nights ago, but tonight, I was able to sit down with her and read three more glorious chapters.  In that time, she decided that Matilda had a mean daddy and needed to get a new one.  All in due time, I thought to myself.  In any case, for an entire hour, my daughter and I wrapped ourselves up in the written word together and loved every syllable of it. 

Illustrator Quentin Blake's rendition of the main character, Matilda.

Matilda is one of my books in my reading goals for the year. Specifically, to read it to my children.  I never realized just how many memories it would bring to the surface of my mother reading to me.  Specifically this book.  This book instilled in me my love of reading, and taught me that there were entire worlds and characters and adventures out there in each and every book I picked up, should I choose to embark upon them. 

This event may not enrapture my daughter to suddenly become some avid bookworm.  Yet I hope it instills something that stirs her to love the written word and just how powerful it can be.  And how entirely wonderful it can be.

You see, I've found that I'm not in it so much for the power behind it, as for the wonder inside it.

Channelling e.e. cummings

amidst a world I've never shared, joy precedes

every moment, his gaze stills the air:

his tender touch is the song of my soul that he whispers,

what i long to bury beneath he somehow knows

his genteel touch disarms my very thoughts

though my walls are as a military's keep

he discards brick by brick every defense as time weathers

(expertly, amazingly, masterfully) away all mountains

and if his desire be to abandon the work, i and

my soul will whither, mere dust sifted into the wind, 

as though a storm descended upon my keep

to crumble and wash away its very existence;

nothing exists in such a world as this

beyond the quiet of such patient gentility: whose light

guides me with such a honeyed sheen,

that both today and tomorrow are revealed

(there is no answer to the question of what unearths 

or buries my soul; yet his touch knows 

the map to my keep and my walls)

his light is the only in our new eternity.

Writing Prompt #32 from Think Written's website: Rewrite a Poem.  Take any poem or short story you find anywhere.  Rewrite it in your own words.

I used the following poem expertly and beautifully written by e.e. cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

  

Influential is Instrumental

The moment I saw her name on my schedule my senior year in high school, I knew that my life was going to find inspiration.  It was a class called Masterpieces I.  It was a famous class because by the time you finished out the year with both I and II, you felt you had traversed the world.  

You had been to the Sistine Chapel and looked up at that glorious ceiling.  You had also looked around that beautiful chapel and realized all of the other famous artists who had compensated to the reverent beauty of that place.  You had walked the grounds of the Roman Coliseum; snuck past the guards to dream of walking the grounds of the Parthenon (fun fact: my father was blessed to walk those grounds before it was cordoned off for safety and preservation purposes).  

You had bypassed the lines in the Louvre to gaze in wonder at DaVinci's Mona Lisa of course, but also the Venus de Milo and Winged Victory.  The pietas were beautiful and heartbreaking.  You noticed the architecture of every ancient European and Greek city, noting the intricate doors, buttresses, and the spectacle of stained glass of the Cathedral de Notre-Dame.  

Winged Victory - Photo from the Louvre Site

I can't tell you how many places made the must-see-before-I-die list.  However, besides the art she opened my eyes to, she also touched on the symbolism behind the cathedrals themselves.  We had to design our own cathedral, present a PowerPoint of specific relatively unknown art of the Renaissance Period (I chose the art under the Sistine Ceiling) - and so you know - PowerPoint was new back in that day and I had no clue how to use it before then.

We also read Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.  Russian literature is not to be overlooked.  Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky taught me so much about theme, I'm not sure if I can completely verbalize the degree to which I was haunted and enthralled simultaneously.

The class was designed to introduce one not just to the fine arts in life, but to delve into them, to truly study them and wonder at why we are so entranced by such things.  She taught me how to love how everything in this world intersects.  Today, yesterday, and tomorrow all meet in art, whether it be literature, sculpture, oil on canvas, or frescoes, charcoal drawings, or the architecture of an ancient temple or theater.

Together, they whisper the thought of the time, the impressions and ideals; the sadness or the glory all at once.  

Oh, Dr. Eichhorn, you lifted my soul and filled my heart with fire and wonder.  You made me believe that my words are possible out in the world.  You gave me silent friends with which to converse, who would always understand the need to create.  The why, the purpose.  Merci beaucoup, Madame.  Merci, merci, merci.

Foolishness at its Finest

This is that time when you want to throw your entire project out the window alongside all your other writing because how could you ever be a writer? Why would anyone want to read what you have to say? And what possessed you to think you ever could write anything besides a simple email?

I've wallowed. I've hidden in a ball under the covers in my room. I've cried. I've considered my sanity. I even had a long talk about my sanity with my husband. I ran a fever from stress.

And I'm back again today. Why? I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess.  I'm an idiot. I'm someone who doesn't give up. I get angry and scream at it all whilst I write.  So if you hear a distant string of irate banter, that's me: not giving up, but not exactly happy about it at the moment.

I want to give up, every fiber of me is hating myself for taking on such work. And I am mad that I am making myself do it. I am such a petulant child sometimes. But as long as I'm working toward something, I'm not going to interrupt. I'm going to let myself scream and banter and curse.

And I will do it until I stop screaming.  And eventually I won't hate myself and my writing.  Well, for awhile.  It comes and goes. 

One Small Step for Me, One Giant Leap for XA-12

My editing is finished for this draft. I was finally able to complete it last night.  And now comes the real challenge, the next step.  Let's try not to make this a big thing. Let's try to see it as it is, just one more step, like all of the others.

And now for the fun part.  Writing some more because I can. Because it's just that much fun to live inside your own worlds. I'm beginning to see why it's fun to exist amidst your own pages.  Not just because it's your creation, but because your own world and the characters you create eventually start to surprise you. 

I just wish I could draw.  That's the most difficult part. Not being able to draw what my head is showing me so I can see it in reality and refer to it is trying.  How do I know I'm not changing their look, their style, their characters over time?

I just hope, if that happens, I am making them more distinguished. Maybe with beards. 

Next post, I hope to begin incorporating a bit of a writing prompt, for fun, and to expand my horizons. Let me know if you have any suggestions.  What writing prompts were your favorite? I'd have to say my favorite writing prompt was to listen to some amazing music and create a story that followed the flow of it.  Now that was exciting.

I'm off to the fair. In the words of my growing Texan heart, let's go write, y'all!

Struttin' Through the Book Shop

Today I feel my fire is both kindled and a little behind the rest of the world.  I strolled into a book store to look around and attempt to not buy half the store.  I perused a lot of the areas.  Of course the memorabilia section always catches me with my fan favorite merchandise.  Then I dug into my favorite sections, the YA and 9-12 Reader sections.  

Oh my goodness! How long have I been under this rock? I have books upon books that I simply must get my hands on. I have all of these titles and blurbs speaking to me more than ever before.  

It feels as if for years I have been missing a limb only to wake up and have one once again. I'm overwhelmed and quite unsure of where to start with all the things I've desired to do all these years without it.  Which do I read first? 

Unfortunately, it also seems to be a testament to how far behind our small library here is.  That is to be said for where we live now. Never have I ever had such a small limited resource in a library before in this country. If I die, may the library here inherit my wisdom and a loan on my books. I'm still not sure I don't want to be buried with them. Particularly my autographed and rare collectible collection, small as it may be. 

In the words of my son, "Mine! No, MINE!"

Why do I not own a cell phone so I can take pictures of all these titles? Something tells me if I don't get one soon, I will simply need to bring in a notebook, sit myself upon the floor with the stacks around me of what my brain simply must absorb, and make a long obsolete paper-written list of books and authors to explore.

I am certain that my recent reads (5 books since this year started) and my writing has opened up my mind to these palpable worlds behind all of these colorful covers.  Reading begets my writing.  So to does my writing beget my reading. I love reciprocal, symbiotic relationships. 

On another note, I need to buy myself a bookstore-scented candle and throw in an old library scented candle for good measure.  I hear they are becoming quite popular. However, I am a stickler for authenticity of smell. Have any of you good lads smelled one and can you tell me is it a legitimate waft of such as to remind one of such places?

Amidst Mermaids and Mickeys

I was just about to begin this post and a certain little boy ran up and closed my laptop and then skipped away laughing. Little Stinker! He is great at making sure we are paying attention.

You know it's interesting since I've started this new trek through my endeavorings to write more.  I suddenly find certain parts of my day extremely colorless at times and then vibrantly so in others.  I'm not sure why that is.  Perhaps it's just my desire to be writing instead of whatever it is I'm doing at that particular moment, but I'm not sure that is totally it.

I'm just not sure how long I can push myself in so many ways.  I know I'm not forcing anything, and I know I am working diligently in many things, but I think perhaps my spirit just needs a few moments to gather itself, recenter, and then continue on.

I definitely needed that today. I was doing fine, in the middle of my workday, accomplishing so much in such a short amount of time.  Then suddenly, it was like my work ethic just seized up and for a few moments, I was unable to concentrate, focus, or accomplish anything.  Everything just felt so flat.

So I took a break, some deep breaths, walked around a bit, took care of some needs, and then sat back down and worked on the simplest thing I could, stepping from one simple stone to a slightly more  involved one and on up the ladder until I was back to it and even forgot the time by the end of the day.

I'm sure more of us get that way than I think.  However, I wish I understood the inner struggle that I have in a way that explained the why.  Perhaps we all think that way, but I'd sure like to know why.  I think I might just be wired differently than everyone else. And I'm okay with that.  But why might help a bit.

Turkey Disguised as a Kitty with a yarn obsession. by MM

I know a lot of this didn't seem much like it was about writing.  But I do know that most great writers had full time jobs to support their writing.  Did you know Franz Kafka was an insurance clerk? And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was an ophthalmologist with his own practice. And so fitting in your writing amidst all this real life full-time job stuff is nothing new.  But I can see why so many struggled at times with it all.

Here I am amidst invoices and project files by day, amidst mermaids and mickeys at night, and somewhere in between I'm amidst my own words on paper.  But only for like an hour to an hour and a half.  And then it's back to the others once more.

It's life and I love it all, but to have it all means you have to work at it all.  And sometimes you need to make choices, delicate tightrope choices to bring about balance and meaning within your days and your dreams.

The Silent Emperor

My placeholder remained and here I return to continue another day.  My head feels much more intact. And all I really wanted to do today is rush through everything so I could continue my editing.  And here I am. Ready to go.

Excited to go and move ever closer to the finish line.  In the meantime, I am waking my muse with some of John Williams' wondrous compositions from Empire of the Sun.  If you have not seen it, I highly recommend it.  By the way, it is based on the semi-autobiographical novel of J.G. Ballard.  Why is it all the best movies seem to be based on a novel?

Hmmmmm, I wonder.

The soundtrack is pretty amazing too.  Then again, John Williams isn't known for bad soundtracks.  If you aren't sure who he is, I implore you to look him up.  He is known for some of the most iconic soundtracks in the history of cinema and it is a travesty to me for those who know music to be ignorant of his work.  I hold him up with some of the greatest composers in history.

He is the author of his music.  That pen he wields to compose his work is not unlike the pen of the author, breathing life into a world and molding it as a sculptor would his masterpiece.  The creators are the masters, the sculptors of their world: drawing the lines, creating the laws, weaving the tapestry of their form into something magnificent. 

We are the captain of the ship, the silent emperor directing their lands in the way they feel they should go.  Does it always turn out as the emperor so chooses? Sometimes yes, and sometimes no.  But that is some of the beauty behind it all.  Even the world we create and command will find the way to tell its story.  One way or another.  The question is, are we brave enough, humble enough, to listen and to direct as we should?

Drum, Drum, Drum to the Beat

This is my head. All. Day. Long.  Thankfully, Excedrin Migraine has dulled the pain, but the pressure is oh so fantastic.  So how do you write with a migraine?

Good question. How do you write with a migraine? I'm okay enough to write this so maybe I can do something, but... I'm not holding my hopes up to any true snuff.

I have a feeling even if I do get any editing done tonight, I will be re-doing it tomorrow. I'm so close. So very very close. 2 chapters to go.

2. 2!

And I will just have to leave it until tomorrow.  This is not how I wanted to spend my evening.

Going off for now. I need to duct tape some pillows to my head.

Make Way for the Dinosaur

The real test begins today.  We are finally in our normal routine at home.  No more snow days, sick kids, holidays, or days off.  Husband and I are back to work.  Our two girls are back in the swing of school, and the little man is back to Grammy's babysitting service.  So our time is always precious, the clock is forever ticking from the moment I get home. 

I hate thinking of it that way, but knowing that there is a bed time and there is still need for dinners to be made, homework to be done with nightly reading, not to mention on Mondays it is our Family Night; what we call Family Home Evening in which we go over the upcoming week events going on, we have a song and a little lesson or an activity, and then a treat to top it all off.

It's something that we do to become close as a family and we learn more about the more eternal side of life.  And we love it.  We have a lot of fun.

But even when it is not Monday evening in this household, our evenings always feel so busy during the week.  At least at the moment.  I know someday I'm going to wonder what in the world I was thinking when I thought this time period was busy.

But to then fit in time for myself to write, to write this blog, to even shower can be difficult.  If you are a parent, you know.  It's about making the time.  Somewhere, but you do.  It's worth it though.  All of it is.

But now is where it counts because if I cannot make this work into my normal schedule, then I will again stall out and who knows how long it could be.  Especially when I am this close.

I am so close.  At least to a new turning point.  And those can be great stepping stones, if I allow it to be.  And I want it to be.  I so want it to be.

A good eventide to all.  There is a work for me to do.

Downward Spiral

And then there's a bad day. A truly trying bad day.  A day where you wish you could just go back to bed and leave it all. A day where the reset button is just not available.  Everyone in my family seems to be climbing the walls today, and I think I led the charge.

I guess it's inevitable.  I edited 3 1/2 chapters yesterday and now I'm just lost in the mix of everything.  Stuck in limbo. All while this close to the end.

I have 4 chapters left to edit and then the re-write.  I'm this close to the climax and now I'm just avoiding the world.  Oh to be a hermit.

I am again on the precipice, right on the edge of finishing.  Feels a lot like the edge of oblivion.  How does one hold on and stay the course? When I am writing, I am excited, eager, and I move at whatever pace is necessary.  But when I'm not writing, I feel this glorious weight.  The weight of Atlas.

Technically, I do have a world on my shoulders. The world of my novel.  I guess it's a heavier weight than I thought it would be. I'm sure with each draft, it will either get heavier or lighter. I'm not sure which. We shall see.

Until then, let's just pretend this conversation never happened and I'll get back to my editing.

The Journey is Only Half Begun

I often wonder how Odysseus thought when he faced yet another struggle in reaching his final destination.  All the years and the obstacles he needed to overcome just so he could continue his journey.  It had to have been agonizing.

I realize he wasn't a real person, but often this is life isn't it? Consistently throwing us off course and asking us to find our way back to the path.  

So when I think of this initial idea that has evolved into the story it has, I feel so lost and hopeless. 'I will never finish!' was something that crossed my mind more than once.  And once we started having children in our life, I was perfectly content to leave it all be until the kids were at least in middle school.

My Mom, napping at our favorite lake house.

Then we lost my mom.  My #1 fan. Yep, even over my husband.  Because she had been following my writing and stories all my life.  She thought I was so creative, telling stories when I was 5 about the life I had already lived and all the adventures I had experienced.

"How could you possibly have been to college and been married and had children if you are only 5 years old?" she asked me one day.

"Because I'm ageing backwards," I replied.  "I'm only getting younger, you just don't know it. And I'm hiding in this family because there are lots of kids and I blend in better.  No one would suspect."

True story.  

 Losing her changed me.  I suddenly realized that waiting was stupid.  I wanted to write, and now I wanted to write for her.  But I just wasn't ready yet.

Then I was ready.  And I pounded out my first full draft in 2016.  And then I plummeted into the dark abyss of my mind and had to crawl back out.  That took a while.  

So I think of Odysseus and the fact that it took him twenty years to get home.  I think of J.K. Rowling and how it took her six years to write her first novel.  Less time than it took me, but hey, I'm somewhere in the middle.  And I feel a little less helpless.

And who cares how long it takes to write the first?  As long as I get it in the end.  It's not about how fast you get there, it's not even how you get there, it's about getting there in the end.  Isn't that what it's always been about?

For the love of all that is hamburgers

Someone decided to print off a writing assignment at my work and they mistakenly chose my printer to use.  Well, I found it.  It was quite amusing as it was a love letter to a Whataburger hamburger.

Almost 4 years ago, we moved from Michigan to Texas and Whataburgers are abundant down here.  And extremely popular.  It is southern fast food.  That is the best way I can describe it.  Anyhow, I thought it quite amusing and fun.  I will say that he definitely used some great descriptive words and I could definitely tell that he and this hamburger hold quite a relationship. 

Although, word of advice, if your relationship with this alleged hamburger is greater than any relationship to a person, I would recommend talking to someone. And no, not the drive thru window at Whataburger.

I'm just having fun. I am always hesitant to read others' writing without their permission, so even though it was all in good fun, I feel a bit like I've betrayed that person.  So if you ever read this, oh lover of the Whataburger hamburger, I hope you can forgive me.

I mean, writing is a deep expression of self. At least, that is what it is to me.  So when people read my writing, I take a deep breath, and afterward need to remind myself that lungs go in and out, not just in.

It may stem from way way back when in first grade when my best friend at the time stole my homework and erased my name off of all of it and wrote hers at the top.  I've safeguarded all of my work ever since.  I've had other people try to do the same throughout my school years, and I just get so scared that someone will try to do that again at some point in the future.

I guess that's why when I hear about writers having their books leaked online or the like, I shake my head and wonder how in the world they didn't know to take extra precaution. 

And then there's me. I'm writing a blog and I'm letting my words out so aren't I supposed to know better?  But I understand that these words I reveal here, well, it is what it is.  Maybe one day I will copyright all this, but I don't consider any of this my best writing by far. I consider this more of my warm up.  My scratch paper. 

Besides, it would be nice to have people on this journey of mine.  It's good to share and not just bury things in the earth and let them slowly degrade over time.  Talents and hobbies are meant to be shared.  We learn more together than we ever could on our own.

An Ode to Tacos

Meanwhile back in the States...

Sometimes you have to just get into the groove to get into the mood to create some words.  Yes, I am listening to music again.  What made you guess?

Extra points if you can guess the song.

I didn't get too much done yesterday. I felt too moody to really accomplish anything.  That and again, this is the chapter where I got very excited, but I also realized how much I still need to edit.  It feels sometimes like there's not much to be done.  Then I get into it and realize that there is still so very much.  I will say that I was quite pleased with myself when I got to a page and said to myself, "Why didn't I elaborate on this scene, stretch it out, and really show the characters in their element?"

"Oh yeah," I told myself, "I meant to make a note that it needed to be 'puffed up' and I never did." Then I thought for a moment. "Wow, I cannot believe I'm on the same wavelength as myself all those months ago."

It's like we're the same mind!

Okay, lame, I know. But I have to appreciate that my brain is good for something in this instance.  I always tell myself I will remember certain things and then I immediately forget. I mean, you are talking to someone who lost a new credit card for 2 months in my sock drawer!

But I remembered, and I saw the scene in my head just as clearly in my mind as back then.  If not, a little clearer. 

So, yes, I'm quite anxious to get back to it.  And again, on the other end of the thread, I am a little resistant to just how much my work is cut out for me in this last half of my book. 

I can say that, I am officially half way through this draft.  Weehaw! I'm ready to do this. Now I just need the music to take me there. 

Hey, while I'm wondering on mine for the evening, what music are you into? What makes you ponder or simply relax? I am always eager to discover new artists and muses.

A Certain Little Boy

The calming music goes on and here I am writing once more.  Simply because a certain little boy will not go to sleep. I'm hoping Chopin is lulling to him.  Only time will tell.

My guest for this evening.

I'll be honest. I was planning to flake off on everything tonight. I don't know why.  Today just seems to be a difficult day all around.  It's a mixture of a lot of things. Regardless, I just wanted a day to tell myself that I control everything with this, with my book. 

That and I've hit another difficult line in my book.  Editing can flow like writing, did you know that? I was doing so well.  And then I cam to the part I looked forward to most of all, and I hesitated.  Now suddenly I'm here and I'm unsure of myself all over again.

It's amazing how much of a see-saw I am.  Two steps forward, three steps forward, run, run, run, and then stop.  Go back now. Take it all back.  Because none of that was worth it.  Okay now one step forward, then another, another.  Take three more, now four, keep moving.  Wait, go back.  Ugh, what dance is this? I'm completely lost now.

This is my head.  Welcome to me.  Ugh, it's not as pretty as I make it out to be.  I try. Oh, do I try. But I always come to the difficulty, and I quake. 

A certain little man has now run back into his room. I get your game little one.  Make Mommy stop and write. Get 'er done, Mom. 

Thanks, little man.  Even if it sucks, I guess I'll try anyway.  Keep moving forward.  Just set your pace so you don't fall so hard.

No Expectations, No Regrets

Every day that I update, I get more excited, but I also feel more anticipation, more expectation, the pedestal begins to be built.  I hate pedestals.  I build them up under myself and eventually I tear them out from under myself and watch myself fall spectacularly.  But if I don't make any goal and I don't take any steps, I never get anywhere.  So where is that middle ground?

All I know is that I must do this for my family, and I must do this for myself.  The rest is bonus.  So I will do my best to find the meaning in why I do things, not the expectations from others.  After all, do we live for the world or do we live for something else?  What do you live for?

Some say I live for me. Well, I, I live for my children, for my family.  And I live for more than that. Living for something is intrinsic to why I write.  It is the embodiment of my existence.  I don't think I reveal any more of myself than when I write.  My spoken words come out too quickly and often I am unable to edit them.  Thereby, like everyone in the world, I tend to say things, and everyone misses the true meaning behind my thoughts. 

Thoughts are such spectacular globs of emotion, color, dreams, thoughts, and memories that so much is lost in translation to begin with.  When I write, I can peel apart the glob, spread it out before me and study it, then translate it to the best of my ability into the English language.  Only then, do I feel I've given you a decent summary of those thoughts.  And even after, I realize I miss things and misrepresent areas of it.  But at least I get further than when I rush to say the first words that spring forward out of my mouth. 

What a tricky business it is, getting our true selves across in life to those around us in the world.  And in such a fast paced, self righteous world, we are easily caught up in the judgment of others as we also deploy to those around us.  It makes for a lonely world.  And a darkening world. 

So I will take my time, and open my thoughts to you.  Not because I want to, or because I think I can say or do anymore than anyone else.  It is to assure you that you are not alone, and the world is not as dark as we may have come to believe.  If you focus on the shadows, you miss out on the rays of the sun. 

So write to connect. Write to reveal the light.  Write to show the world that we can still connect.  All is not yet lost.

Mendelssohn's Incidental Music - A MidSummer Night's Dream

There is some music that transports me right into my head.  As if the composer knew my mind, completely unraveled before him and decided to write a portion of what he experienced.  Mendelssohn was one, Chopin another, and Enya might very well have property somewhere inside my mind.

Specific pieces though, speak to me. And oddly, most often it is not the mainstream love that so many others have.  I have spent a portion of this evening digging through my memories, attempting to find these inspired pieces on Spotify.  It is not as easy as it looks.  Do you know exactly how many nocturnes Chopin has? And how many in whichever key signature? Still, you discover new music when you do and that can be quite fun in itself.

I'm a sucker for many different kinds of music. I may have mentioned this in a previous post a fair few years ago.  Give me Imagine Dragons and Coldplay, then later douse me with Chopin, Debussy, and don't forget Vivaldi.  Then later, a night cap of Frankie Valli and mix a bit of Sam Cooke in there and we have a night of some of the best music.

Oh, music is like the auditory story sans words.  And when there are words, I feel the emotion, the story behind the words being used.  Oh, the adventures I have listening to music.  Spotify is my own musical library and it is my secondary love.

I'm sure in another life I would've been a bard or an ancient storyteller.  Imagine being the first to tell the story of Beowulf! Being in that captivated audience! And oftentimes stories of that age were sung, not simply spoken.  Then someone had a novel idea! To write it down! So be sure, dear fellows, that music and books were borne of the same dream.  And it is quite true that most often, I am unable to write without some inspiring music playing in the background.

The music sets my stage.  The perfect music is important to emote what I need, to allow for a smoother voyage into my mind.  And then I am poised, baton raised, instruments up, just waiting for the down beat and count to begin my opus.

There is a reason that the derivative of music is the word muse.  It is one of mine.  And I never explore a new world of mine without it.

Goodnight, weary world.  My candle burns bright and long this night.

As The Train Passes The Station

Are you on the train? Or are you at the station? From which perspective would you choose? Do you work there, on the train or at the station? Or are you a customer, someone who has paid a price for the ticket and is about to embark, just arrived, or just now leaving the destination? 

Are you family or friends seeing one off or searching the crowd for a long lost face?  Are you travelling for work and so have no one to greet you or see you off? Are you a spy searching for information or an informant? Are you searching for a suspect or a victim? Are you simply watching the trains go by?

Are you lost or sad, or excited and eager? Who are you in all this mess? Or is no one there but you? Are you the ticket collector on the train, going about your business, or have you snuck on board and trying to avoid him or her? Do you enjoy trains or hate them? Did you want to travel by train or are you shackled to the method of travel for some reason or another? What is that reason? 

Is it evening, morning, or so late that all are asleep but you? Have you lost your luggage, or do you like to travel light? Did you pack a lunch or are you a big spender?  How long is your trip or how short? Where are you going, where have you come from? Are you stopping to catch a bus or a taxi, or renting a vehicle to get around? Do you watch out the window or do you people-watch? Or are you consumed with your technological object in your hand or lap? Is something important or frivolous happening in your life right at that moment?

Can you see the stories, the adventures, the tragedies, and the comedies as they pass you by?  Can you see how many directions and how straight the paths you could take?  Can you see just how many stories there are at one juncture of one place in a fraction of a few moments?

Don't delude yourself or let others make you think it has all been written and there can never be anything new.  Those are the ones who have lost their ideals.  They have forgotten their dreams and let their imaginations dry up.  There is always a new story to tell, a new character to meet, and a new world to walk among.  The similarities are what allow us to connect, but the stories are not their plot points.  They are like us: important to the final detail and as unique as fingerprints.

Feel Good Inc.

I will admit that yesterday I looked at my book like some intimidating door to this huge expanse that I had to build all myself; like all the parts to a house laying on the property but no blueprints except the ones in your head.

Then I wrote my blog post.  By the time I finished, it didn't feel so intimidating. It suddenly felt more welcoming.

Okay, I thought. I can ease into this.  And suddenly, boom! A chapter and a half edited without any sweat, blood, or tears.  Can this actually occur? And can it occur twice in a row?

That I cannot tell you, but I can tell you that it has been leaning heavier in my mind since yesterday.  And now I feel I have been waiting all day to get to this point.  Maybe that's why I did all the dishes, folded all the clothes, took the kiddos to the library, went grocery shopping, did all the laundry, and made dinner.  Just so I could say, I've done enough for all of you, now leave me to it. I've got work to do.

And here I am, once again at the precipice, ready to dip into my adventure once more.  The pool is calm, undisturbed and so beautiful in this light.  It is as I am the first to disturb such water, and I feel that it has invited only me into its depths.

Into its depths, I willingly go. For it will whisper stories no other can tell. And I am ready to hear.

A Rusty Squeezebox

Reach up and take it.  Sometimes writing feels just out of your grasp, currently like my son's Mickey Mouse balloon.  The string is just an inch outside your grasp, even on your tippy toes.  But you try anyway.  Because that is what you want, what your entire being desperately desires.  Life, however, has other things in mind for the time being.

There it sits, waiting like the most loyal of all creatures.  It will be there, exactly as it was left.  The only regret will be time which inevitably takes your memory and carves it into a dull thing that seems shapeless.  Once the opportunity presents itself, we grasp at it and it is ours to carve once more into the sharp and visceral image that we must re-conjure.

It is much easier said than done.

One thing I can say about time and the space between the actual writing.  You can come to know your story in far more sharp detail than you ever thought.  The downfall, inevitably, is the time you take to assess your own ability at it.  And there lies our imperfection and self doubt, and that will be the death of your world if you allow it to be overtaken by such demons.

Here I sit next to my draft, which I have finally finished, by the way.  And here I sit writing on this blog of all places, rather than in my draft.

Why in all that is holy am I writing in here and not there? Have you ever been intimidated by yourself? Have you ever been intimidated by your own creation? This is my battle now.

I let my music box unwind itself and the music has long since played. And now I come back.  My story is sharp in my mind, but the work of the next draft is new territory.  To quote Samwise Gamgee, "If I take one more step, it will be the furthest from home, I've ever been."

I've taken that step, and now I take another and another, and I feel so much further away than before.  I guess I need to remember what Frodo replied, quoting Bilbo, "It's a dangerous road, Frodo, going out your door.  And if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

I guess it's time to wind up my music box and see what plays now and what wondrous things I learn from it.

Adventure is a wondrous world that few are brave enough to experience.

A few good reasons to read. Courtesy of James Howe, an author who has some of the most entertaining reads for littles.