Saturday, October 29, 2011

A Writing Day

Today is a writing day.  It has arrived. 

The day when I get the words from my mind to the paper that will tell Lisa's story of her night in the audience.  I'm sure you're not surprised since it was you who asked again and again about Lisa and her view of the play that night.

So.  Today that's what I'll write.

And I'll work a bit on the cover and add everyone's corrections into the manuscript. Then.... then.... I think the second book will be ready for typesetting.  Not by November 1st as I had hoped.  But sometimes the words aren't ready and so we must wait.

While you're waiting, so you don't think I've forgotten you, here is a re-print of a previous post to help you understand the way of words.

Stay tuned.  A book may be soon ready for your enjoyment!

Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Words Dancing Across My Page 

So. Here I am. At Dunn Bros. Writing. Because I can.

It’s a new season, I think.

Surrounded by a babble of familiar voices I have never heard. Encased by familiar buildings I’ve never ventured within. Sipping tea and tapping my heart.
But with a new sense of purpose. A new sense of identity.

The barista said, “I can’t write.”

I answered, “oh, I’m sorry. I can’t not write.”

His co-worker laughed in complicity. He understood.

Words don’t leave me even when I’m trying to leave them. I don’t always like my words, you know. I wish they would leave me alone and let me just go on without being so pushy, forceful, demanding.

And so I’m listening to writers talk about issues and friends talk about relationships and I’m letting the words have their way. Like a wild horse let loose to run in the field.

There go the words. Free. Beautiful in their own confidence. Not as if they had ever been reined in and made to walk properly. I can almost see the wind following behind them as they frolic.

I’m really enjoying listening to the writers talk about writing. I wonder what they would say if they knew I was writing about their words, about their thoughts. I think they wouldn’t mind. After all, writers like to be heard. That’s the point of writing.

Well, maybe not the point, actually. But the impetus, the thing that pushes us to the paper. The thing that wakes us in the morning with a song suddenly waiting to be written. The thing that pushes paper to pen – whether the paper is a napkin or the back of a bulletin or a scrap tossed aside and the pen is a pencil or is black or blue or orange. The words don’t always have to be heard, but they must always be recorded, left behind.

Now the writers are discussing a poem and the memories to which it belongs. It makes me think of the bridge at Jackson Park that I just visited. I tried to explain the bridge to someone who didn’t really understand. He tried, but the connection was too ethereal, too disconnected, too much water color and not enough pen and ink.

I wonder if my words are heard like that by most people. Do they float too quickly beyond what people expect to hear? Expect to see? Do they require more definition and people don’t want to work that hard to understand? Or are the ideas and the topics too personal and don’t translate well?

I don’t know if anyone will ever want to read my ramblings, but I still can’t not write. The words live on their own and grow at their own pace.

Mostly, honestly, I do enjoy them.

Like I enjoy sitting here listening to the writers talk about writing and the friends talk about relationships and the students talk about classes while the jazz softly plays and the tea cools.

I’m a writer. And I write because I can’t not.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Autumn Words

Golden drops of promise swirl about my feet crunching my steps refusing to hide me. 

I do rather like autumn.  The Indian Summer week for sure!  It's been in the 70s and almost 80 the last week or so. 

Good for walking.  Good for thinking.  Good for living. Not good for writing. 

Who wants to sit inside with the blinking lights begging for morsels of adjectives when the last eeks of summer are taunting?

Not this girl. 

So I haven't written much and I haven't read much and I haven't taken the miasma of thoughts and given them form.   They are there, though, I promise.  Waiting and wondering when they will be seen. 

I had thought the second book would be ready for print by November 1st.  It may still.  It needs a good Saturday rain to get finished, polished, perfected.  The cover isn't right.  It wants more... I don't know.... splashes or flashes or something like that.  Some of the words are awkward.  They don't sit right on the page.  They need more balance, more agility, more time.

Remember last year about this time?  I struggled with crossing the writer's bridge. The one that links the private thoughts to the public domain.  That bridge.  Most of you didn't know I stood at the brink of retraction.  I almost didn't put it out there.... but then, all of sudden, with a life of its own... the book was done.

The words sat tight.  The pictures reflected deeply.  The cover hummed.

I'm not afraid of the bridge this year.  The audience response from the first book gives me courage.  I don't know why God uses my words, but I'm sure He does.  He links my life's struggles and joys to others.  They are hither and yon, these readers who read me.  My words pull them over their own bridges.  My experiences give them peace despite conflict. 

I know the book is almost ready.  Just not quite.  Like the last bit of leaves that sit snugly on the maple refusing to fall, the final touches are holding out for just the right wind to give them flight.

And all the while.... golden drops of promise swirl about my feet crunching my steps refusing to hide me.