writing – Page 189 – Michael Seidel, writer

Mottled gray nimbostratus clouds stretched across the valley from the mountains and ridges on this Wednesday. The clouds and news cycles leave me feeling gray and tired. It’s mid-week, too, the end of a wearying month, a week out from a trying week. My complaints are first world mutterings about losing friends, the weather, inflation, oh, and what will I do with myself today? It’s darker times for too, too many people. Damn, shouldn’t really write these things until I’ve had some coffee, done a Wordle and a Sudoku. Doing those always gives me a boost, as if successfully solving these silly games can be applied to life, to the world situations. I feel like the fool upon the hill.

It’s March 30, 2022, March’s penultimate day, then April takes the stage. I’m holding my breath to see what she might bring.

Sunrise kicked in at 6:57 AM and sunset will be at 7:34 PM. Temperatures have dipped again under the umbrella of rain ruling the area. The temperature is 46 and the high will be 56 F.

My dream mind was busy creating complex scenarios full of bright colors. I was not young in these dreams. Numbers were prominent features. Scribbling them out left my fingers knotted and my mind busy, trying to figure out WTF is going on in my head.

Of course, I’m writing. I’m in that stage of my novel writing process where scenes and ideas leap into the concept, which is still the broadest of sketchiest ideas. Thirteen characters are on hand, plus two cats and three dogs, and the ship. All of the characters have become someone other than expected when I sketched their basics in my head and documents. Like the muses are sticking their tongues out at me, taunting, “You don’t know anything.” They’re right. Every leap and change encountered makes me ask, “Wait, why.” They reply, “Just write. The answer will come.” I don’t know that I have that much faith or courage. Still, it’s an entertaining, satisfying, challenging, frustrating, exciting, despairing, exhausting process. I highly recommend it.

Hah. Had to break off writing this to attend a floof request. Immediately began writing in my head; the muses instantly said, okay, now this happens. I said, “WTF? Seriously?” Yeah, they answer. Yeah.

As you might imagine, the morning mental music stream is busy this AM, too. Looking out windows, thinking about writing, dreams, weather, mood, news, past, and future, I saw so many birds busy with spring rites. Jays, robins, sparrows, finches, wrens, crows were all energetic. Bit uplifting. Out of that morass came a Nelly Furtado song, “I’m Like A Bird” (2000). Where her song is about flying away and flying around, my thoughts are more about rising and falling with the beatings of wings, following a course when it seems like everything is a whim.

Stay positive, test negative — do you know this one? Good. Here’s the music. Excuse me while I see the coffee man for a fix.

Cheers

We’ve reached another milestone, a day that ends in ‘y’. This one is a Tuesday.

It’s March 29, 2022, for those of you playing calendar bingo. Sunrise came at — ta da! — 6:59 AM. Sunset will be at 7:33 PM.

A weak sunrise was experienced, one like a cup of tea made with a tea bag that’s already serviced a dozen cups as tattered rain clouds still harrumphed across the blue. We had a few stretches of steady rain yesterday, one bit of that which hit five on the Floof Scale. I always use the Floof Scale to measure precipitation. A five meant, find cover, it’s coming down. Ten is head for high ground and hang on.

Average spring temperatures remain the norm. The digits sit at 48 F now. We expect 67 F today. Back out to weed this afternoon.

Today’s music was brought on by yesterday’s writing session. I’d been finger dancing on a kb for a while as the muses whipped my back and urged more writing, faster. Stopping for a breath, I discovered the digits said it was almost four PM. The day had slid past in a word sprawl. The neurons, catching on to my surprise about the time, began singing, “Time, time, ticking, ticking away,” repeating that chorus. They were testing me, of course. “The Last Worthless Evening”, Don Henly, 1988, The End of the Innocence, I told my neurons. To reward me for getting it right, they started playing the song, and now it’s stuck in the morning mental music stream.

Stay positive, test negative, and remain alert to what’s going on. Here’s the music. I’m gonna go treat the neurons to a cuppa java. Cheers

Monday, March 28, 2022, is out of the gate and running. The sun slipped into the valley at 7:01 AM and will slip away at 7:32 PM. The temperature is a comfy 52 degrees F but the high will probably top off at 60 as rain is in the tea leaves.

No dreams were in my head this morning. It happens, but it always feels weird. Like, what happened to the dreams? Why aren’t they there?

What is there is music. Tom Jones is singing in the morning mental music stream. So are the Beatles, Who, Stones, and 21 Pilots. What’s it all mean? I queried the neurons but they’re not saying. It might all have to do with being up late writing last night. Was about to close the files for the newest work in progress, The Light of Memories, and shut down the computer when I thought, let me start this one scene so I don’t lose that thread. Forty-five minutes later, the scene was finished, and two others were started. I don’t generally like writing late because the neurons start running around like adults at a beer festival, which isn’t conducive to sleep.

The neurons have quieted. Into the silence, they’ve brought up “Fell on Black Days” by Soundgarden from, like, 1994. An interesting choice, a dark but strangely mellow tune. Used to listen to it during the SF Bay area commute. Guess it reminds the neurons of better times and places.

Here’s the music. Stay positive, test negative, etc. You know the drill. What’s that, neurons? Yes, you’re right, it is time for coffee, or, as I call it, coffee time.

Cheers