The Writing Moment
Back into the groove again, my little chicklets. I reduced my writing time while I was in Pittsburgh visiting and helping Mom, especially so in the final week. Figured I’d gone there to visit with her, so I needed to shift priorities and reduce my writing (grimace, grimace) and pay attention to her and her life. But now I’ve returned to Ashlandia and the writing and editing scene. Up to page 508 of 590, or over 86%. Probably complete it by week’s end.
And then I’ll turn around and begin again. Number 7.
Each time has felt good, like I’ve progressed in the story telling, and improved the elements. Of course, I’m the mother, so what else would be expected of me but to have pride in my baby? I’m also terrified because what if I’m totally wrong about what I’ve written and I’m deluding mysef about it, and it’s actually a stinking pile of garbage?
I don’t know how much it really matters about its quality. I’m having fun, meeting the challenge, and pressing on.
And that’s what I set out to do.
Cheers
The Book Dream
This was a chaotic dream, almost fractured, with abrupt shifts. It began with me running around a city. It reminded me of downtown Pittsburgh, PA, at the point, because of all the on and off ramps and intertwining roads and multiple bridges. While cars were zooming around, I was on my feet, jumping and darting from place to place.
“I need a car,” I told myself. “A vehicle, so I can get going.” At this point, my dream was giving me a heroically backlit presentation of a younger me standing on a white cement onramp looking toward the city.
With dream insights, I knew I wanted/needed a car because I had to cover a lot of ground. I was looking for books, and books could be anywhere.
This set up a set of scenes of me finding a car, driving, getting out of the car, and looking and discovering a book. It seemed like I did that a bazillion times (yeah, that might be hyperbole). The cars were always different and were sometimes a car I’d drive in real life: a ’68 Camara, signal orange ’73 Porsche 914, white ’72 BMW 2002, and a 2013 white Prius. Not always, though.
Finally, I was in a house. Not recognized from RL. Looking across the carpeted floor, I spotted something underneath a sofa. “Is that a book?” I wondered.
Walking over there, I lifted one end of the sofa and confirmed, yes, that’s a book. With a beige cover, it seemed worn and old. With some disgust, I realized that they’d been using it to prop up the sofa because a leg was missing.
I put something else in its place and dusted the book off to examine it. That’s when I found that I’d written. “I thought so,” I exclaimed, and the dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 