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.