Category: writing

Friday’s Theme Music

Ordinarily, I love this time of year. The air smells fresh after the winter scrub and temperatures are moderate. Blooms crack out of the ground and raise their heads, unfolding their colors. We’re still waiting for most of that. We’re on winter/spring seasaw, and winter has the better of spring on most days. High and low temperatures are ten to twelve degrees (F) below normal for this period. It’s 37 F now. Clouds are positioning on the western horizon.

Earth’s orbit still brings some reasons to rejoice, like sunshine. This time of year, it floods the master BR through the massive slider on the eastern side. Out in the dining room, sunshine steals in through the dining room southern windows and grows bolder. Back in the MBR, the sunshine fills the room and then slides south into the living room’s eastern windows. Finally rising above the trees and mountains, sunshine fills the living room’s eastern and southern windows, along with the dining room’s windows. Fabulous.

The blinds are raised. The floofs absolutely adore finding those huge stretches of sunshine. We have mixed flooring — bare hardwood, rugs, and then carpets. The floofs find their warmth intoxicating. They settle in spots. Synchronized grooming commences. Then, naps.

Today is March 31, 2023, March’s last day, and Friday. Winter storm watches and advisories are up for Ashlandia from tonight at 11 PM through Sunday night. Saturday through Tuesday calls for snow and rain. Up to 24 inches of accumulation, depending on your elevation and location. I think we’ll see some snow around my Ashlandia hood, but not much.

Watching and reading the political news in wake of the Nashville murders of six people and the D.C. debt ceiling talks and Jordan’s performance at his committee hearings, The Neurons punched up a 1972 Steely Dan song, “Only A Fool Would Say That”. Echoes my comments about what I was hearing and reading: only a fool would say that.

Stay pos., and enjoy whatever you can. I’m enjoying waffles and coffee, watching the floofs sleep in sunshine, and the build-up to shifting into the writing day. Kind of like getting ready for a championship game, with less commentary and commercials.

Have a better one. Here’s the music. Cheers

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The Writing Moment

It’s the blurt. This is the fun part of a new writing effort, when imagination spins up and the story rolls out like it’s on a fast-moving conveyor belt. Questions are asked about who and why, but answers are filled in fast. The story unwinds, teaching him what’s going on, and he spills it onto the page, connecting new dots, splicing in realized bits of stuffing about who these people are, why they’re together, their objectives and problems, their story.

He really doesn’t know where it’s going but that doesn’t matter. He’s writing, and it’s going somewhere. He’ll need to sweat some details later.

That’s later. Just enjoy the trip. Drink coffee and enjoy the trip.

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The Writing Moment

He was doing nothing. By that, he meant that he was playing a computer game. The television was on. Picard. A cat slept on the desk to his right.

His wife was in the recliner to his left, on her computer, playing a game, too, but also voicing disapproval about the television show’s plot.

Suddenly, they were there, more substantial than ghosts, surrounding him. Two seated their asses on the desk on either side of his laptop.

He looked at them. They crossed their arms and smiled. “What’s this about you’re not going to write for a few days?” one said, classic New York accent.

His muses. He wasn’t surprised. “I thought I’d take a few days off.”

The muses laughed. “Why? Stories are waiting. You’re eager to write them.”

“I’m a little tired.”

All laughed again. “Aw, he’s tired,” one behind him said in mocking sympathy.

“So?” the muse on the right asked.

“That’s okay,” another muse said behind him. “Let him go. If he doesn’t want to write, that’s his choice.”

He nodded. “That’s right. Just for few days. My eyes are tired. I feel like I need a break, you know?”

Muses leaned in. They began whispering scenes. He paused his game and watched television.

Or tried. Eager and resigned, he opened a new file.

He’d just write a little. See where it went.

The muses nodded. “That’s the spirit.”

Was it too late for coffee?

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The Writing Moment

He’d completed the second draft of the novel-in-progress. The Light of Memories.

Being done felt good but odd. Another round of editing and revising was needed, he felt. The Light of Memories has a complicated concept and story because he likes complicated. Huge cast of characters. Several betrayals and double crosses. He felt he’d gotten it all right, but another round wouldn’t hurt.

With a little surprise, he saw in his notes that he’d begun writing the novel on March 20, 2022. One year and two days later, here he was, done with the second draft. It feels very satisfying. He’ll see after the next round.

Now he’d go on a break from it. Let it recede from mind so he sees it with fresh eyes. It’d be hard. He’d been with those characters and their stories almost every day for a year. He was going to miss his time with them. Maybe he would start another novel. He had a dozen other concepts in mind. Had even written opening chapters for half of them. More was teeming in his head.

It felt too soon. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe not. He’d have some coffee and see.

Tomorrow.

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