A Day for Relaxed Gladness

After a week of 30 degree weather on the Outer Banks, (translated: FREEZING, for us beach-blooded people at least), today was a perfect 65 degrees, with all the sun one could want, and just a breath of breeze blowing, and a warm breeze at that. It was the type of day that makes you remember that winter doesn't last forever, that spring is really going to follow.

We've passed the shortest day of the year, each day now followed by one a little longer, a few more minutes until the sun sets behind the ocean, a few more minutes to appreciate life here on the beach.

After two weeks of holiday travel, visiting family, and two very tired children who've been off schedule for days, today seemed like a day made for people to just stop, take a deep breath, and actually enjoy the madness; at least, now that it's mostly over. A day of recuperation, and calm gladness, for lack of a better way to describe it. Feeling happy, but relaxed; sitting on the porch and enjoying the day instead of using it to get something done, and not feeling the least bit guilty about it. A wasted day that is perfectly un-wasted.

Days like today put me in a great frame of mind to write. I'm not stressed about it, or anything really; that would be near impossible in the frame of mind today induced. I know that when I sit down, even though I have no ideas at the forefront of my mind, my fingers will start going across the keyboard, and words will appear, becoming sentences, building into paragraphs, even pages.

I sat out on my porch tonight, and just let myself loose in my head, letting go of all the unintentional, and unavoidable, tensions that keep everyone grounded in their day to day lives. The lake across the street, more of a large pond really, was reflecting a porch light from a house sitting at it's far edge, gently rippling and swaying, and somehow beautiful.

For me, that reflection, and the fact that I could just sit and take it in, absorb it really, was the greatest gift I've received this year. I'm happy my family is healthy, I'm happy we could all be together as we so rarely can these days, and I'm happy that we are, for the most part, happy.

But more than any of that, I'm happy that I was given those few moments on the porch to actually realize those things, to let them sink way deep down into me, where I can truly appreciate them.

I hope the New Year brings more of the same. =)

Writer's Infidelities and Rivers

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, also known as gluttonous family day. I love eating all that food, and then eating all the left overs I said were for the next day. Right now, my house smells like Dutch Apple Pie (thank you Sara Lee), and it is DELICIOUS!!! A far cry from the smell that preceded it, cooking collards. (I'm in the south, we eat collards, deal with it.) If you know that smell, you feel my pain, and if not, well...that apple pie still smells amazing!

It actually is kind of a homey smell to me, not because my mom used to bake or anything when I was little, but just in general. Maybe it's not just the smell that makes it homey, but also the fact that the oven is warm, so it's like a cinnamon scented fire kind of. Just smells like a house should when it's cold outside-to me at least.

But something is keeping me from lounging on the couch waiting to see Rob on Leno in fifteen minutes...I feel like I'm cheating.

Not because I'll shortly be drooling over how ridiculously, adorably British and perfectly flawed Robert is. Because I now have more than one story. Strangely enough, it's kind of reminding me how I had to adjust to two kids.

You have to share the time out as equally as possible, but sometimes that doesn't work. Sometimes, the baby needs more attention, and the older one is slightly ignored. In return, occasionally you have to go out of your way with the eldest to make up for it, and in turn end up ignoring the younger. (*big sigh*)

Apparently I am unable to do anything at all without mentioning my children. It's a disease called "parenthood" and I apologize for that.

So back to the point. Writer's infidelity. Hmmm...okay. So I have this new story, and it's great. It's a great plot, no question. I know that a great writer would have huge sucess with it. I am not a great writer. I'm so new I still have that new car (writer?) smell. And while I can see it flowing like a movie from scene to scene, I can feel it, every emotion, everything, I'm scared. Because it's so perfect in my head, once I start writing it, I worry I'll screw it all up and then hate it and it will be ruined because of me. So that's one thing.

The other thing: Story 1. I, as usual, jump right into the deep end without knowing how to do more than doggy paddle. The story I have in my head for that is a lot of work. I mean, sit down, spend hours researching things, thinking long and hard over other things....just some pretty exhausting stuff. It has the potential to be a really good story, although as different from the other as night and day, but it's going to take some work.

You all remember how I feel about work, right? (see old post below if you've forgotten)

So I have a story that I need to have a pile of research on before I do too much more, and another story that I feel like I could write in one marathon 13 hour sitting, if that was possible. But it's not, and I don't think that writing a little bit in the hour here and 30 minutes there that I have free will do it justice.

Let me take a moment to explain the "rhythm and flow" of how I write. Imagine a river, nothing too big or small. The top of it is glassy and smooth, barely a ripple to show it's moving. But as you get further and further down into the water, the current gets faster and faster, until you get to the riverbed under all that water, covered with pretty stones.

So when I start to write, the beginning is the top stage. I'm just floating along, like a water lily, on top of the river. The longer I write, the deeper I get, and that current picks me up and starts to swirl me around, and the writing just flows out beautifully. That continues like a crescendo until I hit the river bed. Generally, the river bed is what happens to my mind after a long time in the current, a whole ton of caffeine, and the early hours of the day after midnight mix together. I get so much, there are so many thoughts and things firing off and exploding in my brain that there is know way for me to focus on just one intently enough to write on it, much less get all of my ideas down. That's generally when it's time for bed.

So, since I usually get only an hour, two tops, I don't have a lot of time to get down deep in that river. And I feel like if I try to write Story 2 from the top of the river, just floating, it's going to screw it up. And on the other hand, I have like, enough research for a thesis to get this really awesome story down. Ugh.

Things are great though, don't get me wrong. Not one by two stories! Tis the season! Hahaha...or maybe hohoho?

Bad jokes, sorry. I must race to my couch so I can commence drooling over Mr. Pattinson ASAP.

Ups & Downs

I'm feeling slightly discouraged today. Nothing huge, just the inevitable downswing that follows the initial euphoria.

Don't get me wrong, I am still feeling pretty dang good about having taken this huge step towards actually doing something with my life. Thinking about it, which I do all the time, makes me smile.

I suppose it's just me realizing that it's VERY HARD to try and start a novel with two very small children who require a ton of attention. Then there's the house that stays in a constant state of "wreck", which requires time to prevent said wreckiness from taking complete control. Oh, and my husband would probably like some small modicum of my attention as well.

These are things I've always been aware of, but the actuality of it sinks in more and more each day, when I want to sit down and lose myself in the world I'm creating, and it has to be put off for some reason or another. This is, I believe, the part in my own story where I buckle down. Which anyone who knows me will tell you, I am not good at things that require me to buckle down. That is usually the beginning of the end for me. I do not have a lot of self discipline, and unfortunately, acknowledging that fact doesn't really do anything to help. Which really seems rather unfair, I think. If I can admit I have a problem, shouldn't I get some sort of recompense? I mean,.....oh never mind what I mean. I'm a slacker way deep down, and while I have tried hard in the past few years, what I consider my actual "growing up", it's still a daily battle for me. And what self-discipline I do have goes towards raising my children so they aren't affected my the same laziness I have.

But do not lose faith, faithful readers! I am not going to walk away from this. I'm not going to put it aside and let it slip into the hazy gray underneath part of my mind, where all good ideas go to die. Well, not die really, they...sleep. And every once in a while they wake up enough to make me feel guilty for putting them there, until I lull them to sleep again. But not this time. Big words, right? Not really. Most of those other ideas were half-formed, mostly useless things to begin with, so letting them sleep isn't the biggest crime in the world. This however (my writing a book), has been a constant in my subconscious for as long as I can remember. And I'm not saying that lightly; literally as long as I can remember, my earliest years of childhood, I wanted to write. The entire time I swore I was going to be a teacher, artist, zoologist, I left it an unstated fact that somewhere in there would be a book, something written by me. To put that into the enforced coma-ward of my brain with my other sleeping dreams would be the worst crime I could commit to myself. The thought of me actually doing that kind of scares me. Well, to be completely honest, it really scares me. Because what would I be then? That would be like cutting the one thread I have left holding me to the future I've wanted my whole life. I would just float around, aimlessly, in some sort of strange purgatory. Ugh. Doesn't that sound pretty freaking scary to you?

Anyways, it's not going to happen that way. Maybe it's that same fear that drives me this time, or maybe I'm actually getting some semblance of self-discipline in my life. Maybe self0dscipline is mostly fear. I'm not really sure, being new to the whole realm of self-discipline. I'll have to sit down and think deep thoughts of how the two are related. After I write a few books. =)

So while it is tough to have to realize that I'll be sleeping less in an effort to get some real work time in (I adore sleep), I think that it's a given that something has to be given up in order to gain anything, and sleep isn't really the worst thing to lose.

Another thing that kind of bums me a little bit is that, in order to write well, to make it real to myself, I have to lose myself in that story, that world. And I can't do that now. Even when I do get the chance to write, I can't just tune out everything else. My kids need to be watched, the dishwasher needs to be emptied, and something has to be made for dinner. And in the three hour space between the kids going to sleep, and me falling asleep, I have to dedicate some of that time to my husband.

I wish it was possible to just dedicate a solid 4 hours of each day to writing. Time for me to really sink into it, learn all those small details about my character that make them so interesting.

If wishes were horses then beggar's would ride, and etc. So no pity party. Just a refreshed sense of commitment to my work, and (hopefully) willingness to lose in order to gain.

I'll leave you with this little bit of wisdom (*snicker*)