Category: writing

Seven

She doesn’t know who first called her Seven. She knows that’s who she is. They all have the same name because they think of themselves as the same person, even though they know that they’re different.

She exists everywhere, but there are only seven of them, so she only exists in seven places and times at once. The seven were certain that there were no more than them.

When we say everywhere, we refer to every dimension, and every time and place. Only one of the seven are ever there. Only one person there can see and communicate with her when she visits someplace. It may not be the same person if and when she returns to a place.

She has been the same age during all of her existence. She has no memory of a beginning, and she wonders if she has an end. The seven of them have their own minds and memories, and they can talk to one another, regardless of where they are. None of them have ever died, that any of them ever knew, and she really doesn’t know how she looks. She’s never seen her reflection.

Other than those things, she’s just like everyone else, except she’s happier.

She’s Seven.

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Charles Said

I wonder if Charles Dickens was ever called Charlie or Chuck?

Anyway, I’ve done these things that he referenced, prowling to find ideas and words, beginning and stopping, beginning again…

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Penetrated

There’s a trio of nursing students who have been coming in and quizzing one another on terms, symptoms, treatments, etc., this week and last week.

Today, they were asking one another questions about ischemia, strokes, and other cerebral vascular events. I’m usually pretty good at zoning out and blocking out others’ conversations and exchanges, but today, their comments penetrated my walls and took me back to my time with coronary and peripheral angioplasty start-ups.

One of them hired me after I retired from the U.S.A.F. I began as the customer service/sales operations manager with a coronary angioplasty company developing coronary stents mounted on angioplasty, ended up a product manager, and then went into marketing services with a start-up trying to develop devices to treat chronic total occlusions. I worked with some terrifically intelligent and energetic people, and wound up wandering the Google “where-are-they-now?” path. I was only with those companies and that industry for a few years – 1995 to 2000 – before moving on to Internet security, but it was an exciting time. I learned a lot, and appreciate the opportunity that I had.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that out of me, time to return to writing like crazy.

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Kafloof

Kafloof (catfinition) – to be utterly defeated by a cat.

In use: “Every time he sat down to type, his small black and white cat stretched out on his keyboard with a green-eyed look that asked, “What are you going to do now?” His answer was to sigh. He knew his goal to do some writing was kafloof.”

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Tuesday’s Theme Music

“Shine” by Collective Soul was playing in the coffee shop when I stopped writing like crazy today.

Released in the early nineties, Collective Soul’s CD became one of my car collection recordings for dealing with traffic and the work day. Maybe strangely, but I always thought of the song as almost like a hard rock prayer, alternating between speculation about existence — “What will I find?” — and then a request to know more — “Heaven, let your light shine down.”

 

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Cold Coffee, Hot Writing

It was an exhausting, satisfying, and intense writing session today. All those muses who reside in the apartments of my being were silenced, except one. They knew exactly what I was to write, and one was the designated director.

Barely able to keep up, I hit that flow. The story’s complexities and this path that I’m following demanded that I first edit the two chapters I’d finished yesterday. Then, the muse dictated, start this chapter, and then another, and so on, until five chapters were being written in parallel. Had to be, because of the nature of the unfolding events. I typed, editing and revising, jumping between pages, paragraphs, characters, and chapters as ordered and needed, trying hard to keep up.

Finally stopping, I look up and engage in the coming-out period. Looking out the window, a line from “Uncle Salty” by Aerosmith comes to me: “Ooo, it’s a sunny day outside my window.”

Coming out after writing is always odd. These are the long seconds endured after intense writing when I re-enter life, my existence, reality, whatever you want to call it. I hear music and see other people. An air-conditioner’s chilly breeze teases my bare legs and neck. I feel detached from being there. What feels most real is that my butt cheeks feel sore and numb, and muscle strain stretches across my shoulders.

Still, I feel detached. I continue thinking about what’s been written, and what’s meant to be written yet, and how much work remains. Once the beta version of all four novels in this series are completed, I then need to edit and revise them until I have a first draft of all, something that I feel complete enough to regard as books. That will be a huge chunk of work. I think I’m looking at the rest of the year and beyond.

With those thoughts still strong, I drink my coffee, cold as an iceberg. Three-fourths of that cup remains. It’s time to stop writing like crazy; I can feel that, like the muse has said, “Okay, that’s enough for today. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”

Still, I feel detached. My fictional world was so much sharper. I was engaged so much more deeply. It took a lot of energy to go that deeply into the flow, I realize. I’ve noticed this before without comprehending it. Going into the flow takes strength, energy, and commitment to induce myself to release enough to accept it.

I’m hungry, too, and realize that I’ve been hungry for a while, and I need to hit the restroom. Yes, time to stop writing like crazy today.

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