Posted December 20, 2006 by JennyWren
I’ve been reading Walden, by Thoreau, which the library wants back (*sob*), and which is so good it’s almost painful to read. Every word that man wrote seems to “reverberate within my soul”. I find myself reading a page or two, and then putting the book down, not because of any lack of interest, but because his writing amazes me. Very few authors affect me that strongly. I have an inkling that Wendell Berry is about to be added to that list; I’m just waiting to get my hands on some of his work in actual book form.
I’ve had that nagging feeling that I should be blogging or posting something about the book; maybe it would help me better keep track of my thoughts on it, or just bring up interesting discussion on authors. I was going back to look up this sentence, which I ran across this evening: “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!” but instead ran across another passage that struck me, with a coincidence attached (which is in the quote at the end of this post).
Thoreau was writing on his once having almost “owned” a farm; in fact, he did, until the farmer’s wife changed her mind about the sale. His description of why he originally fell in love with the place is a perfect example of why I feel such connection with his words…he described precisely the notions I had about the place where we live now: “The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its complete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or in short, had made any more of his improvements.”
We have no river bounding our place, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll know that I have a certain fondness for dilapidated buildings; they have character. I also remember a day last year, when the persistent rumble of bulldozers had me worried. I went out in the yard at different points during the day, the noise kept getting closer to our house. Early the next morning, trees on the neighboring lot (still for sale) were swaying, then cracking with that horrible dying sound that trees have. I was on the phone with the realtor, who kept assuring me that they were just “defining some of the property lines”, while trees continued to fall. A neighbor stopped by, and confirmed my fears that something more was going on than a little “defining”.
Beyond our house, and the next in line for improvement, was a completely wooded lot, with no “suitable” spot for a house or driveway. What would they do to the woods I already loved, the oaks and hickories and a secret little grove of pawpaws, where the trees were so thick there was not sun enough for brambles, and your steps were so quiet you could surprise a deer? What about the “waterfall oak”, where the leaves clung on determinedly through the winter, the sound of the wind blowing through them once causing my son to think we must be somewhere near flowing water?
I took one more walk, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t leave the children for long, so I brought a two-way radio with me, and ran down through the ravine, hurriedly searching for the property lines, trying to get a more definite feel for the place, arguing with myself the validity of spending the money to “save” a piece of land. I looked at trees, I cut across trails; I was out of breath by the time I hit the top of the next ridge. I considered lumber values…could I justify years of extra payments with those, knowing that we would probably never cut a single tree? I ran through a clearing, pausing long enough to see that it was still the perfect spot for a hidden house…then down the hill…all the while, I could still hear those bulldozers. My shoes were soaked; the dew was still on the grass and weeds. Then I came to the old fence line. There are old oaks here that belong in some fairyland, the line runs across the remnants of what was once a farm. Below this line, there is a ravine that is dark, cool, and silent. The ground is covered in moss, and the tree roots provide homes for little folk, my daughter and I are sure.
All the way back up the hill, and toward home, I debated with myself, told myself how crazy it is to fall in love with trees. I came up with all of the practical arguments I knew my husband would have when - if - I called him at work. But then I took one last side trail, back into the trees that would certainly be the first to go…and saw the light there, the stuff they call “dappled” in the summer, and that as you go deeper into the woods takes on a mystical feel…am I a romantic? I had to make the call.
We now “own” that other piece, but we haven’t touched it, other than to gather hickory nuts and explore the trails. There may be a day when we build a house back in that clearing. Or maybe not. But at least it’s there. What is a clearing without the woods around it?
“To enjoy these advantages, I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders, - I never heard what compensation he received for that, - and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone.”
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Monday, December 4, 2006
Impressions
Posted December 4th, 2006 by JennyWren
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
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I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
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Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Chapter V: Where the Writer has a Sobering Thought...
Posted December 2nd, 2006 by JennyWren
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
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Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
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I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Midnight Confessions
Posted November 30th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, since my husband has taken my spot on the couch, and I’m up anyway, I might as well see what comes out of my fingers tonight.
Midnight confession[als]. We’ve all got colds here, and I think a slight fever is leaving me susceptible to doom and gloom. Playing beautiful music isn’t helping. It seems to be a catalyst for emotional "outbursts" (overflows).
Everywhere I look, in everyone around me, there is corruption. Bitter or jaded hideousness, even in myself. How can it coexist with beauty? Not as contrast…they seem almost like alternate realities, ghosts in each other’s world.
When I’m feeling all "morose" like this, I am overcome with the need to spill out what is really there; it looks like emotion, but feels like meaning. I don’t think there really is anything there anymore. When I was younger, I thought there was more to me, I had so much…so much I wanted to do something with, to share. Now I am only a shell; anything that was inside is paralysed or stunted, or has atrophied by now.
My inability to face or accept reality has left me with the grief of time lost, things I haven’t done, and by virtue of that, things that have been done, and that I can’t take back.
A different record drops on the turntable, and the mood changes. A sweet tune about nothing in particular, but the notes bring on an overwhelming amount of emotion. Music can carry us or drown us. Why do we let it?
I am saddened by words spoken tonight. But how can you blame someone for speaking their truth? It may even be your truth, as well, only unrecognizable because of the lack of mask.
Well, since my husband has taken my spot on the couch, and I’m up anyway, I might as well see what comes out of my fingers tonight.
Midnight confession[als]. We’ve all got colds here, and I think a slight fever is leaving me susceptible to doom and gloom. Playing beautiful music isn’t helping. It seems to be a catalyst for emotional "outbursts" (overflows).
Everywhere I look, in everyone around me, there is corruption. Bitter or jaded hideousness, even in myself. How can it coexist with beauty? Not as contrast…they seem almost like alternate realities, ghosts in each other’s world.
When I’m feeling all "morose" like this, I am overcome with the need to spill out what is really there; it looks like emotion, but feels like meaning. I don’t think there really is anything there anymore. When I was younger, I thought there was more to me, I had so much…so much I wanted to do something with, to share. Now I am only a shell; anything that was inside is paralysed or stunted, or has atrophied by now.
My inability to face or accept reality has left me with the grief of time lost, things I haven’t done, and by virtue of that, things that have been done, and that I can’t take back.
A different record drops on the turntable, and the mood changes. A sweet tune about nothing in particular, but the notes bring on an overwhelming amount of emotion. Music can carry us or drown us. Why do we let it?
I am saddened by words spoken tonight. But how can you blame someone for speaking their truth? It may even be your truth, as well, only unrecognizable because of the lack of mask.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Thanksgiving Leftovers...
From A Wren's Nest
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
A New Day
Posted November 9th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Scribblings
Posted November 7th, 2006 by JennyWren
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
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