It’s hard staying disciplined today. I’m going through through my monthly cycles*, and I’m on a creative high. Sounds good, but…

My imagination has too many ideas about the novel in progress, rendering the process more difficult and challenging. Through my muses or myself, I’m besieged with new what-if scenarios. Each demands to be considered and incorporated, or discarded. Once a path is chosen, my fingers dash over the keyboard in mad hammering. As scenes and chapters are finished, new ideas jump in again.

The problem isn’t having ideas about the story or characters, or a writing block. The problem is that there’s so many ways to tell the story, so many choices about what to write. It seems like an enviable situation. Don’t be fooled. Knowledge gleaned from writing other novels has informed me, too many ideas can end up with a messy, messy novel. I know that I can write it all up and edit and revise, but I think that writing along the wrong paths dissipates the novel’s essence. Besides that, my puny brain struggles to keep everything straight. Adding more complications…well, complicates that process. The challenge is to find the best path and keep focused on it despite the temptations to stray, and some of them are very, very tempting.

Got my coffee. Know what time it is? Yep, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Note: my spectrums – the mood shifts from happy and optimistic, to dark and pessimistic and the energy levels that rise and fall – seemed monthly, perhaps driven by hormones, tides, or some other causes. My imagination runs on like cycles, as do my emotional and physical energy. Yes, some call this all hokum, others think of them as pseudo-science, but it’s something that I experience. Being aware of them helps me manage the dark times.


Pairafloof (floofinition) – two housepets.

In use: “The pairafloofs occupied the sofa when he came in to watch television, forcing him to sit down his bowl of popcorn and drink to clear a space. As soon as he sat, the pairafloofs were putting their heads into the popcorn to get their share.”

The Silent Dream

I dreamed I was walking on a sidewalk by a city street. It seemed familiar. Across the street was a cemetery. Heavy, old trees protect the graves and mossy, tilted head stones. Squirrels, jays, and robins dash around the cemetery lawn. The grass is high and rich with tiny, white flowers. I can see that the wind is blowing.

As I notice the waving grass and tree branches, I realize that I don’t hear anything. That disturbs me. It’s unnerving. I’m walking, and cars are passing, but it’s all a silent movie. I see birds but I don’t hear them. A jet flying overhead leaves chemtrails but not sound.

Turning a corner, I come up on an intersection and watch others walking and talking. They seem to be hearing. Cars and trucks pass without a sound. Red, amber, and blue lights flashing, a firetruck silently passes.

The wind grows stronger, and it’s more difficult to walk or even stand. I can feel the sun’s warmth on me. In fact, I feel too hot, and sweat sheathes my back. Ah, so not all of my senses are affected. I can feel heat and the wind, and I see everything going on.

Turning into the wind, I test my sense of smell. Rich odors of burning marijuana, baked goods, cut grass, exhaust gases, and wet earth reach me. I smile as I smell them. Relief creeps in. I can smell things. I’m only not hearing. Why can’t I hear?

A weird epiphany that the wind of change is blowing strikes me. As I stand and think about that, I suddenly hear everything going on. It was like the world had been muted, and now it was un-muted. Listening, I walk back toward the intersection.

So the dream ends, with me standing at the intersection, listening and watching everything around me, and thinking. When I awaken, I stay in bed, thinking and listening, going through a memory of the dream.


When I sit down and open my computer, I perform a ritual of blowing away the debris that’s collected on the keys, the cookie crumbs, peanut pieces, and other curious-looking but unidentified things. I figure that my blowing should clear it away but it never does the job. That surprises me because people keep telling me that I’m a blowhard.

Guess I need to blow harder.


Saturday’s Theme Music

I was out walking. Spring and winter have been doing a back and forth. It looked like spring had seized momentum. Yellow daffs, Oregon grapes, clumps of orange, red, and yellow tulips, and blossoming trees gave our town colorful highlights that it usually lacks. Passing some houses that looked tired and neglected, I wondered about the people living behind the dirty windows and high weeds. Evidence of projects begun and never finished rests in piles of stones, dirt, and half-completed dirt. Some reason, then, I started streaming “Take Me Out”, Franz Ferdinand (2004).

Well, I knew it wasn’t some reason that I began streaming the song. It’s because these facades hid people who could be living the quietest and most desperate lives, dealing with pains, diseases, and medicines, aging and dying beyond the grasp of their dreams. I wondered about their quality of life. I wondered what they would say if they had the chance, and if any would ask, take me out of here.

Hence, take me out.

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