Dream, Fiction, Imagination, Inspiration, Novel, Reflections, Short story, Writing

Oh, how I miss the fever!

Allow me to wax nostalgic as it nears the second anniversary of my latest novel’s birth. I had written the first one ten years ago, then put it away. In the breach between, I turned to other pursuits and wrote only an occasional short story or poem. I had no plans to write another novel at the beginning of June 2008. Oh, but then … I had a dream.

Soon after waking the next morning, I detailed the dream in an email to a friend. Write it as a story, she said. I did. I felt the first twinge. The story refused to let me go. It poked and prodded and pouted until I produced a companion for it. Then, still not content, they both haunted me. I felt an ache.

The stories wriggled and pushed and shoved until I let them loose. I succumbed to the fever. Through the veil of  my infirmary, I watched the stories consummate their relationship and give birth to a novel, weak and bleating. In my delirium, I heard it whisper tantalizing what ifs.

With glazed-eye madness, I wrote, revised, edited all summer, all fall, all year. I took a dose of critique; repeated every two weeks. I sacrificed meals, showers, sleep for just a few more minutes to write. Finally, after fourteen months, I delivered my book into waiting beta hands. Nope. Not done. Expand, explain, excel. I relapsed and wrote more, all fall, all winter. Edit. Repeat in Spring. Ahhhh.

Now, I wait for a new infection. One that will lay me low with that delicious obsession with character, setting, and story. I am ready. Inoculate me with that live organism. Come on. Do it. Give me that writing bug.

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Humor, Musings, Time, Writing

Free prose day!

Today’s post doesn’t really have much to do with writing, though I’m calling it free prose. That’s not the same as stream of consciousness; I would never subject you to that.

Juan, Henry, and Margaret

I grow roses … well, for the most part this last year, I neglected roses, but still they bloomed. Yesterday I cut a few. I don’t usually do that this late in the season because I like to let them go dormant for a couple months, but roses that bloom in cool weather have the sweetest fragrance, and I needed a lift.

In the bouquet pictured, I have Don Juan (red), Henry Fonda (yellow) and Margaret Merrill (white) and though the yellow doesn’t usually have much scent, and the red much less than the white, they’re all scenting the room as I write.

My work station?

I have not done so well on my NaHoCleMo challenge. The reward of a spotless house, including cupboards, closets, and drawers, is not enough to goad me into the nearly three hours of daily work I need to keep on goal. Actually, it’s not so much the cleaning that gets me down, it’s the deciding. I don’t know what to do with piles of stuff when I pull it out of those cupboards, closets, and drawers.

I like to blame it on being born under the sun sign of Libra … you know, being able to see all sides and trying to be fair in my judgment. Should I keep this? Should I give it away? Should I toss it? It’s that inability to decide that clutters my house in the first place. That, and my mother cleaning my childhood bedroom and throwing away all my little “collections” which she apparently mistook for trash. I’ve battled with keeping MY STUFF ever since. Ah, well …

In what sense are we lost?

I know this question is “out there” but is it possible that time is speeding up? I’ve been thinking that it’s only because I’m getting older. And cruel joke that—the less time you have left the faster it’s used up! But I’ve heard people far younger than I make the same observation.

Of course, with that in mind, we could veer off into questioning what time is, which would make my head spin, so let’s don’t. Although … that does remind me of the show LOST and how I so wish I could figure it out before they reveal it all this next season.

All right, I’ve blathered long enough, but at least free prose is … well … free.

Musings, Time, Writing

The thief of time …

Procrastination is the thief of time. (gasp) Yes, I used a cliché, so take away my keyboard! Looking out a kitchen window this morning, I saw a hummingbird come to the feeder only to find it empty. I apologized. It’s been empty for two weeks. Twice I’ve made the syrup to refill it, set it aside to cool, and then forgot to fill the feeder. I do not manage my time well.

I think imagination is also a thief of time.

 Sometimes, I daydream of living in a cottage in the woods where time is defined only by darkness and light, modified by the seasons. That’s probably a daydream I shouldn’t indulge in. My mind tends to wander back there, while my body is expected to run on the artificial construct of “realworld” time. I’m always vague on what day of the week it is or, on occasion, what month. The date of an event I would swear occurred two weeks ago, I’m often astonished to discover is actually five weeks past.

 I read a lot … time is fluid. I spend far too many hours online … open 24/7 for your convenience. I write every moment I can … and there I am most easily lost. I create people and conversations and situations—my way, my world, my time. Bookworld, not realworld.

 Sometimes, I lose track of where I am … of where I am supposed to be … of which is home.

Fiction, Musings, Power, Reflections, Writing

Alone time

Do you get enough alone time? Some people say they thrive on activity and social interaction. I’m not one of them. At this point in my life, I’m blessed to have a good bit of time when I’m the only human in the house. I take advantage of that and sit writing, with only the sounds of the keyboard to keep me company. Okay, I admit, there’s also the email alert … except on Saturdays when, it seems, most everyone in the world has better things to do. My husband works three Saturdays of the month (poor man) and though I usually have a mental list of things I should do around the house and yard, I rarely keep to it. But I had a different sort of alone time in mind when I started writing this.

I’ve been thinking back on times when I felt truly alone within myself.

Frightening times, like when, after major surgery at the age of fourteen, I realized I could die.

Spooky times, like when I’ve driven late at night in an isolated area and realized I hadn’t seen another car for ages, and started wondering: have I passed over into the Twilight Zone? has some world catastrophe left me the only person alive on earth? are those tales of alien abduction really true?

Awe inspiring times, like standing by a brook deep in a wood with the sun’s light filtering through the canopy, or standing on an ocean beach or mountain ridge, looking out to forever and feeling this could be any point in time.

For me, the best alone time has always been the tender times in the still of the night, watching someone you love peacefully sleep. Whether child, or friend, or lover, you stand guard in those few minutes. You are empowered in your aloneness. In your all one ness.

May you always have enough alone time.

Fiction, Inspiration, Musings, Reflections, Time, Writing

I believe in yesterday

No, I’m not going to wax eloquent on the time-space continuum, or time travel, or eternity, or any other concept of time as defined by physics, philosophy, or religion. I’m viewing time strictly from an egocentric point of view. My time.

The trilogy of time—what was, what is, what shall be. Yesterday—I’m told the past is dead, forget the past, don’t dwell in the past. Today—I’m told to live for today, live in the moment, live as if there is no tomorrow. Tomorrow—I’m admonished to plan ahead, to be forward thinking, to project into the future.

Of these three, I vote for yesterday. I’m not ashamed to admit that I love the past. I exist today … and I can only think about the future … ahhh, but the past is certain. I was there. To forget your past is to forget yourself. I’m the sum total of all the days of my life. I’m the end result of my ancestors. Even more, if you can hear it, I’m the present incarnation of an eternal being.

Now, I’m fairly techo savvy, I have a working knowledge of current politics and world affairs, and lord help me, I’ve even heard of Brangelina, but the past?

That’s where the stories are.