Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofpose (floofinition) – 1. When a housepet seems to strike a pose while in the middle of doing something else. 2. The way housepets lay while sleeping.
In use: “The tortie was washing her face, and the lab was crossing the living room when both floofposed in the middle of their respective acts, bewildering their human. “What is it?” she said. “What do you see?” As if shrugging, the cat resumed watching and the dog continued to the pet door.”
Last night’s dream shook me. I’m not certain why.
I was with my spouse. We were at her mother’s property, with her mother. Her mother passed away in Feb., 2018, after several years of illness. Her illness and care were instrumental in a family schism with one sister. The property is over twenty acres in the countryside.
The estranged sister wasn’t present. I had an impression that it was she who’d passed away. My wife, mother-in-law, and I were talking in general. As the conversation progressed, I was inspecting the house and thinking about what needed to be fixed and how that would be done. We were mostly talking about the dead sister’s husband. He was planning to stay on the property (he and his wife had a home on it) and would continue taking care of it.
I went outside to walk around. It was a gray, quiet, chilly day. While there was a lawn around the houses and outbuildings, fog swathed the woods. Tree trunks obscured with a gauzy swirl.
Weirdly, I still heard my wife and her mother talking, even though they remained in the house. While walking around, I saw a large, gray or dirty white curly-haired dog cross the property. To me, it appeared that the dog had dragged itself out from a hole under one of the outbuildings. When I went to check that out, I saw another dog come out of a hole from under another building. That was soon happening in every direction. There were quickly seven or eight dogs of different sizes, colors, and breeds running around.
I spotted a small ginger tabby cat. Seeing all of these, I ran back to tell my wife and her mother about the animals. They either didn’t understand or didn’t believe me. I kept repeating what I was telling them, and then insisted that they come out to look. They finally agreed, and when they looked, the number of dogs seemed to double, and then two ginger cats were there standing up and looking back at something. As if a signal was given, the cats dropped to their feet and darted away. Seconds later, the dogs did the same. For several moments, it was a helter-skelter scene of dogs racing to their holes.
And then they were gone.
End.
Just thinking about recent news and politics and remembered the song, “This Is Not America”. The song was a collaboration between David Bowie and the Pat Metheny Group, with Bowie providing the vocals. The song was used in the movie, The Falcon and the Snowman.
The movie is based on the true story of two young American men who become Soviet spies, selling classified information. One is motivated by disillusionment while the other needs money for drugs and partying. Released in 1985, the movie starred Sean Penn and Timothy Hutton.
I was in the military when the movie and song came out, working in a mob unit in South Carolina. Then I headed to Germany and a highly classified unit. While on that assignment, our unit was involved in a couple trials of former members who sold classified information, and several other spies exposed in the U.S. It was all very spy-vs.-spy, but it ended up with more heat on us. Although I was only a functionary, I was glad to put all that behind me after the collapse of the U.S.S.R.
First, some acknowledgements were required. Then decisions, followed by introspection, and finally, action. Yes, it was a typical writing day.
I’d finished writing the first draft of April Showers 1921 and found it a hot mess. Part of that were unreasonable expectations (who, me?) about how the first draft should read, along with unreasonable comparisons to published novels being read. I know that one author comparing their work to another author’s work has never been happened before, but I couldn’t help myself. It probably had to do with a bad moon rising, a hormonal surge, or general malaise.
I’d also begun hearing editors, publishers, critics, and readers in my head. It was a crowded damn place, and they were a damning crowd. Foolish, I know, to consider anyone else while you’re writing the first draft. It’s one of my problems with being human.
Third, I was over-thinking every aspect of everything that I was writing. I know, writers never do that, and yet, I was, for some reason.
Fortunately, I was able to intervene with myself.
I have a habit of hunting for quotes about writing, writers, and the process and curses. I’ll often hunt for interviews with authors to find these quotes. It shouldn’t surprise many that I focus on quotes dealing with whatever issues are vexing me.
This week, I found quotes from Jane Bardam and Anna Burns that helped me get over myself. Jane’s quote, “We never know what we’re writing about, even when the book’s over,” first struck me. Becoming overwhelmed with my concept, I felt like I’d become trapped in blackberry bushes and couldn’t escape. I’d become paralyzed trying to analyze and understand what I was writing about. That was just shutting down my brain.
Likewise, over-thinking what was going on undermined my writing process. I then came across Anna Burns’ comments. She was all about how the characters turning up and telling their stories. That’s exactly what I normally do, when it’s all going well. Anna continued about it being a messy process, and that it’s sometimes told backwards.
Yes, and yes. Those were true for me.
But the last part was what saved me. Anna said, “Eventually, though, the book cleans itself.”
That reverberated through me. I’d gone from trusting my muses, the convenient label I apply to the thinking that comes out of my subconscious spigot, to trying to think my way through everything. In other words, I’d suddenly begun approaching this creative process backwards.
Those interviews and their insights helped me re-balance myself. “Relax,” I said. “Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. Trust the process.” Those calming words pulled me out of my funk and put me back on track.
None of this is like splitting the atom. It’s basic writing process. Of course, your experience will probably vary. For me, it’s always about finding and losing myself, trusting and questioning, struggling, and then succeeding. It’s about being willing to fail, recognizing that failing isn’t permanent, and that there must be a way to go forward; it just must be found. That can be daunting.
Been a good day of writing like crazy. Time to quit and pursue other crazy. Cheers
Floofpourri (floofinition) – 1. A mixture of odors usually associated with having one or more housepets. 2. A miscellaneous collection of items used by or for housepets.
In use: “A child’s old toy box had become a floofpourri, with collars and leashes peppering jingle balls, tennis balls, and fake mice and birds. Several of the housefloofs had a habit of getting out whatever they wanted. Briscoe always found and brought out her favorite catnip-stuffed mouse, and Lawyer retrieved his leash whenever he thought it was time to go for a walk.”
Today’s song comes from another person’s post. Jill Dennison posted “Ain’t That A Shame” by Fats Domino. After enjoying it, my stream countered with Cheap Trick’s version from “Live at Budokan” (1979). I enjoy the original and the CT cover, but the latter is stuck in my head, so here’s some rock and roll for your Wednesday’s theme music. Feel the beat.
Vacflooflate (floofinition) – for a housepet to waver in mind, will, or feeling about going or staying in and out of somewhere.
In use: “The cat ran to do the door, but once it was open, he vacflooflated about going out or staying in.”
h/t to Facebook/The Greek Cat Society (UK) for photo.
Edgy dreams undermine my rest even while I sleep.
Sometimes they seem malicious,
but they help restore balance and serenity.
More frequently, they’re insane, causing me concern about my mental health,
although sometimes, they’re not remembered, listing in the gray of my thinking’s edge
like shipwrecks from other times.
