Wednesday, February 25, 2015
When it's cold outside all I want to do is hibernate. Good book, cup of something warm and sweet, and endless time in which to reflect, to be still, to heal.
There's a desire to wander into that snow-filled glade in Narnia, watch the dryads dance and drift into ambivalence regarding...well, most things that stress.
To everyone: I hope you find at least a few precious hours in which to wrap up, reflect on what's important to you, what you value, and take care of yourself physically and mentally.
To everyone in the Northern United States: Take care, stay safe, warm, and well hydrated with hot chocolate and tea.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
The weekend was whirlwind. Family appeared from out of town, a joyous cacophony. Two young second cousins and their mother, a neice and her grandmother, my mother, all from 300+ miles away to see, touch, and taste this new world we call home.
It was lovely chaos. We feasted and met across town; they came to the cottage for the "grand tour": a simple process of standing in a particular spot and veiwing the entire living space. Two of the children put on impromptu dance recitals while Jon gave my cousin a crash course in photography. The cat even wandered out to see what the fuss was about. He quickly retreated back into the bedroom, unimpressed by children dancing like mad hatters across the tiny living room floor.
Then -poof, swish- they were gone, back to metro Atlanta, back to their normal. And here I sit, my normal the hum of space heaters, the notes of classical piano wrapping around me with comfort and a tinge of sadness.
It is lonely sometimes in the foothills of your dreams.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Or I turned around and it my arm decided not to work and hurt.
We'll go with the first explanation. It sounds way more excusable (and way less lame). Regardless of how it happened, I have done nothing except come home from work and sit by the space heater. Sad but accurate account of lady's past week. It's better not but any amount of typing that requires more than a couple of fingers is painful.
Please accept my lame apology for not reading posts this month. Ugh...
In other news, I've been a planning machine! I got story ideas solidifying left and right. It's been such a long time since I've seen the larger picture with any of my stories. Daylight is beginning to glimmer with at least three of them. Now I get to narrow them down and choose one.
This post didn't turn out to be much more than me boring you to tears with excuses and ambiguous story work. Whoops! But I do so enjoy being here...and my New Years goal is to blog three days a week. So far, so good! Whiny posts be darned!!
Got any whining to do today? Lame excuses to confess? Did anybody else's husband meet Alton Brown? Wait - what?! Yep. True story. So jealous...
Have a wonderful Tuesday dear readers!
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
These words echo yesterday's IWSG Facebook post. Motivational Monday rings out with the scathing question: Do you wait until you feel like it before you write? The embarrassing truth is that I usually complain that I don't much feel like writing today, thank you very much, so I won't.
Saturday afternoon I looked outside my back door. The few potted plants I brought from Atlanta rattled in the breeze, only three of which are still alive. I've needed to clean out the old, dead foliage for months. But I don't feel like it. It's cold. It's dark when I get home from work. I pulled a muscle in my neck and chest and it's too painful to move (ok, that one is legitimate). My courtyard is cluttered with matted dead plants and crumpled leaves. All because I don't feel like cleaning up.
Is this an analogy of my writing mind? Perhaps, yes. Perhaps with the continual shoving away of the WORK of writing, slowly I let in the mold and decay. The same debris that slowly suffocates my still living plants symbolically chokes my stories. Just as the plants didn't ask me to plant them, I didn't ask for these ideas to come to me.
No matter. The responsibility is the same. Be you gardener or writer or some amalgam of both responsibility of caretaker is heavy. You water the herbs whether you feel like it or not. You weed the parsnips whether you feel like it or not. You sit at your computer and type - like it or not. Why? To keep things alive.
Stories are living things. They require constant trimming, pruning, fertilization to thrive. Just like my plants.