Month: December 2019

Saturday’s Theme Music

Another song which entered my stream this morning and just lodged itself. A worthy song, sure, and one that I’m familiar with, but not my ‘type’ of preferred music. Of course I know it; pop music was less divided back in 1976 when this song came out, with fewer stations. Generally, in the places were I was, there were two or three news/talk format, two or three pop/rock stations, a local NPR station, a sports station, light adult contemporary, a jazz station, several religious stations, and a couple of country and western. My car had six presets, so I had my favorites on there and went back and forth, punching the button with a finger when something I didn’t want to hear came on.

Nevertheless, so songs were overpowering popular, that they were heard everywhere, all the time. Besides hearing them on the radio, they’d be on television. People played them on their car cassette players, record players at home, and 8-track players.

This song, “Don’t Cry Out Loud”, performed by Melissa Manchester, seemed like it was one of them.

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A Few More Drips

I’d been experiencing such great writing mojo. It was wondrous, the sort of writing experiences sought by authors everywhere. The writing flowed freely. Editing and revisions tailored the passages into cleaner, more reader-friendly (and story-advancing) prose.

Then, Wednesday came.

There wasn’t any indication Wednesday would be the day that the mojo didn’t come, but Wednesday was the day the mojo took off. Maybe the rain chased the mojo away, or perhaps they had a dental appointment.

I asked the muses where the mojo had gone. The muses shrugged, palms out in classic “I don’t know” non-verbals. “Who knows how the mojo works,” they said. “Mojo has a mind of its own.”

Their response surprised me; I thought the muses supplied the mojo, a position that amused them. “As if,” they said.

I struggled through Wednesday. Writing a short chapter (about a thousand words) consumed hours. Carving and shaping it sucked another thirty minutes. Even then, I was like, geez, that needs work.

Then, of course, I walked away.

The next day, the mojo showed up late but still, good to have them (don’t know the mojo’s gender, to be honest). Fixed that Wednesday chapter and then pushed on. With mojo encouraging the muses (or is it the other way), the writing time flew. Words poured out.

Beautiful. Off I went, walking, writing in my head as I went, pursuing chores, then back home for lunch and household tasks. All the while, the mojo stayed. The muses kept whispering more.

Quietly (avoiding attracting the cats, scaring off the muses, or alarming the mojo), I opened my computer and added another page. Off for more holiday running around with my spouse. The mojo remained, and the muses kept whispering, “Add this. Write that.”

Back home, more was added.

Then, showering this morning, more scenes dripped in. “Hurry,” the muses said, “let’s go write.”

“Come on,” the mojo said. “You gonna write or what?”

Yes, I was gonna write. At page two hundred, with a goal of keeping it less than three hundred pages (which looks promising), I believe it can be completed by the middle of January. Earlier is possible (as is a shorter novel) as, tying ends together, I revise the page count down.

Got my coffee. The muses and mojo are present. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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Flooftagonist

Flooftagonist (floofinition) – The animal who is the principal character in a work of fiction.

In use: “Enzo, a dog, is the flooftagonist in The Art of Racing in the Rain, a novel about a man’s life, and the dog’s role in his relationships.”

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Friday’s Theme Music

Still raining.

Still walking in it.

Still fun — or pleasant — but a little less so than yesterday or the day before.

Smoke was rising from the hillside, leftover from the controlled burns in the watershed the other day. But I thought, yeah, maybe someone set fire to the rain.

So then I was thinking about Adele’s song, “Set Fire to the Rain” (2011), a powerful, powerful song about love, relationships, and re-birth. I (probably like many) enjoy her refrain:

But there’s a side to you that I never knew, never knew
All the things you’d say, they were never true, never true
And the games you’d play, you would always win, always win

h/t to MetroLyrics.com

That’s what you find as you go through relationships, the pieces that aren’t revealed, whose revelations (when found) fundamentally shift your thoughts (and feelings) about the other, leaving you to ask yourself (as you search), what do I do?

Sometimes you walk on, sometimes you stay, but the relationship has been changed.

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Centrifloofgal

Centrifloofgal (floofinition) – Proceeding or acting in a direction toward an animal that is the center or axis for all activities.

In use: “Many households organize along centrifloofgal patterns as pets (and their relationships) to their people dictate (or limit) plans.”

“Centrifloofgal force often stalled laundry days as pets climbed into baskets of freshly-laundered clothes and napped, too sweet to be disturbed.”

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Thursday’s Theme Music

It was a rainy night so I started humming the Eurythmics song, “Here Comes the Rain Again” (1983). So sorry they broke up but bands have their own cycles of life, death, and creation.

I enjoyed the construction and sensibilities of these lines in the song:

Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion

I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you?

h/t Metrolyrics.com

I happened to be walking in the open wind and remembering walking in the rain, alone, something that I enjoy. A sharp cold wind was knifing across my cheeks, and I breathed it all in with joy, satisfaction, and nostalgia. Then the clouds broke and there was that brill full moon, coming on like a spotlight. With clouds skipping past the moon’s surface and the wind quickening, it seemed like the moon sprinted across the sky, a trick of the mind. Clouds closed over the moon, and the rain came again.

Is it raining with you?

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Coffee House Rules

My home office is a comfortable place. Got a big desk, chair, books, all that stuff, with easy access to the kitchen and coffee.

You’d think it’d be ideal for writing. Cats, spouse, neighbors, and generalities seem to conspire against it working. If I had to name one as the greatest offense, the cats would take the spot. They’re like, “Hey, I hear him typing. I better go put a stop to that by getting on his lap or the keyboard.” (This is called an interflooftion.) Just doesn’t work for me.

So I like coffee houses for my writing endeavors. I abandoned my previous favorite (management changes, and they treated former employees (who are family) like garbage, so I’m gone). The search was on, causing me to remind myself what I was looking for. Also, people ask me, “What are you looking for in a coffee shop for your writing?” or “Why do you go there?”

So — no order, really, but numbered for convenience.

  1. Tables with chairs and access to outlets.
  2. Good coffee.
  3. Some space.
  4. Decent prices.
  5. Location – must be in Ashland, OR.
  6. General ambiance.

A nice staff also helps but I must say, in fourteen years of frequenting Ashland’s coffee houses, I’ve not encountered a nice (code for friendly and engaging) staff.

These are subjective things. (Right? Most things are.)  I settled on Noble’s after trying a few places. Noble’s has all of the above (plus excellent scones and muffins (although I try not to indulge, right?) except their coffee costs one dollar more. After deciding on the place, though, I then had to pay attention to its ebb and flow, cause, you know, those tables, chairs, outlets, and space aren’t unlimited.

As with most places, you either must arrive early (typically before 8:30) to beat the morning rush. The next break generally arrives at ten. With Noble’s, I found the best time to arrive for my writing is 11:30 AM. The place empties. Most tables (with outlets) are available, so I have a choice of places. There’s then a forty-minute lull before they experience a lunch rush. I can settle in and write for a few hours. It’s great.

The start time pushes back my time, so I need to adjust either ends. Of course, this is winter; things will be different in other times of the year.

It probably won’t surprise you, but I ran into friends everywhere I went in to have coffee and write. (“Oh, you’re writing here now?”)

Alright now. Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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Butterfloof

Butterfloof (floofinition) – 1. An animal with fur the color of butter (also known as butterfur).

In use: “Everyone who saw the cat exclaimed, “What color is his fur?” To which she replied with a pleased smile, “He’s a butterfloof.” That explained it all.”

2. An animal which enjoys flitting from flower to flower.

In use: “Exploring, the puppy was a butterfloof, going about the backyard and sniffing everything that he found, pausing with each as if he was savoring new knowledge.”

3. Animals who enjoy the taste of butter.

In use: “A true butterfloof, the cat would hunt down anything that was buttered and begin consuming it. One had to be on constant guard.”

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