THE Return

 The words have returned to me, in a very big way.

Oh, they never left entirely. I could scribble out a poem, describe an evening on my porch, share a summer shower, and most especially I could write a lengthy rant and make others laugh at my horrible life, because I was making a joke of it, even while complaining and whining and feeling sorry for myself. 

Always, always, a thin trickle of words remained. 

But I was used to a river! A wide, full, flowing river, hopefully with a waterfall or an underground component that popped back out of a rock wall.

Not just a babbling brook, although those could be fun. 

Not a nearly dried up creek bed full of rocks that crack and turn to powder in the heat of everyday. 

And not just things. Not just weather, and birds, and description of static objects.

My words were persons, and lives, and with voices and thoughts of their own. With in-jokes and griefs and crying-until-laughing, and laughing-until-crying. 

These persons wanted needed me to tell their stories so that they did not dissolve unnoticed into the midsts of mists. 

But I could only share moments of them, if even that much.

Somewhere I lost them.

My words had gone, and with them gone, so was I. I was no longer the Voice, or the Participating Narrator, or however my role could be defined. 

I was not them and they were not me, and so I was no longer I, and their very existence was at risk. 

Sometime in the autumn of this past year, they came back. A whole gang of them started shouting at me, even waking me every three or four hours in the night. 

Mostly they were saying, "Look at Me! Here is My Story!" That was okay. I could watch and listen and wander off into dreamland, often a mixture of their presence and my lack of presence. I need do nothing but be aware, and I needed only to be aware of their existence. 

Soon, they compelled me to creating them for others, and I did. Not always easily, not often quickly, but the more I did it, the more I felt myself again becoming.

I am me! I am Here! I am me!

I finished that story and did a second draft, and sent it out to a few chosen readers that I thought would offer good commentary. So far the reviews have brought up good points, but I've not heard from one section of my chosen readers. I don't know yet what does or doesn't work for that class (for lack of a more precise word.)

As I waited to hear from my readers -- I am seriously considering this as a venture into self-publishing, or print-on-demand, or whatever it's called these days -- I began another story with my fingers and there was a third story stirring into existence in my mind. 

These last two were abruptly and rudely shoved out of place by a compulsive need to write a fan fiction piece about a young child trying to make sense of the death of a parent. 

It wrote itself in ten days, wringing me out from the inside out. That's why it took so long to write it. It left me too exhausted to communicate. 

I slept. 

I slept, I wrote, I ate, with occasional trips to the doctors (5 or 6 of them) because I am old. But mostly I stayed home, with two sets of people pushed to the back of my mind, squabbling for my attention, while this child was trying to make his world make sense again. 

That exact type of compulsion to write is a rare event. It was really almost like what psychic scribes (I forgot the correct term) describe. As if someone else was melding with me, using my mind and body to do what theirs could not.

And I am concerned, my friends, for surely a compulsion of that strength and with that urgency was MEANT to be heard/seen by someone, perhaps to make sense of their topsy-turvy world. 

I just hope that somehow I am getting the word out to the right person. 

Fan fiction seems a strange platform for delivering such a message. 

I don't do fan fiction. The people in my own head tell me this or that is wrong with the other peoples characters and turn them into who they are. I have a sincere respect for any writer who can make someone else's character breathe, and can do it right, but that is a skill I have never ~quite ~ had.

I can only hope that the same energy that produced it reaches across or through the void and finds its target.

Whoever you are, I hear you. I feel you. I even love you. 

Because I, too, have been there.

You are not alone. 

Loved the Rain, And You

I've always loved the rain, and sharing it with you.

The opening lines of a complete regretful eulogy of a song, complete with instrumentation and a wistful familiarity.I had the whole song, as I sat on the porch watching it storm and missing Tammy.

Yes, I know. I keep going back to that.
It was important.
It was something to look forward to.

And something that never happened.

I doubt I will ever realize it's raining again without that thought.
If you knew Tammy, you'd know.

Anyway, the song.
It was so familiar, and so wrong, but right at the same time.
Loving the rain, and enjoying it, and sharing it. The storms, lightning flashing, thunder booming or rolling.
The rain slanting down.
The clean smell of it, even those first soured minutes onto hot pavement in the heat of a summer afternoon.
Walking along under the trees.
Laughing at children running into and out of shelter, laughing, not knowing if they liked it or not.
But laughing at Mommy and Mammaw playing, dancing, jumping in the rain with them.

In and Out, In and Out, a tapestry (tap dance?) of rain and laughter and love. Every stitch, every step a part of a larger, joyous pattern.

And the Music stops and the pictures of what was, what is, and what will now never be stops also, frozen in a moment -- ah, but such a lot of moments! -- forever.
And the rain forever falling, and the laughter, and we, too, are falling and floating with it, because it is what it is, and we both loved it then, and love it still.


It was in a dream, so I lost a lot of the words when I woke up, but they've come back to me, a line or two at a time.
As yet, I can't put them in order.
Maybe someday...

The familiarity bothered me.
And I found the song.

https://youtu.be/ixa7-EG0YhE

See what I mean about it being both wrong and right?
And even if I do remember my words to the music, I'll not be able to use them, except privately, which seems almost a shame.  The music belongs to someone else, and most of the words. And I'm not someone to go begging for exemption from copyright infringement. That's a big deal.

Ah well.
It's one thing I know I did right, loving the rain, and sharing it with you.
Now you can ride the clouds, up and down,  in an eternal bonding with your beloved rain.
Enjoy, my pluvial Pisces.

Am I A Writer?

I always have been.

But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.

I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.

But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.

It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!

Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?

I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.

The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.

So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?

I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.

No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?

What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?

Natural Writing

I enjoy writing my blogs.

Of course, I like writing. It's as natural to me as breathing, and as necessary.

That's not a bad comparison. Over time, we sometimes have to train our breathing back to its easy, natural state. We begin to breathe more shallowly as soon as we begin to talk. We star gulping air into our stomachs instead of our lungs as soon as we begin to eat -- and that starts pretty soon. We hold our breath to get into clothes, we remodel our insides, squashing our lungs, cramping our diaphragm, to conform in our appearance.

Soon, we are no longer breathing naturally, although it is adequately for our survival. We go to doctors, we take exercise classes, we learn yoga. We do these things to get back to the natural and easy way of breathing.

Learning to breathe correctly is not easy, after years of doing it wrong and years of lazy breathing. It feels unnatural, to push out our stomachs as we breathe in. It's painful to fully expand the ribcage. It takes training, work, and lots of practice.
Aching muscles and sore abs and later on, we are improved by the improved oxygenation in our blood. We look better, we feel better, we are better.

It's not enough to breathe. We need to breathe correctly to be at our best.

This helps explain why a natural talent for writing isn't always enough. We may have the words flood and flow through our brains, tremble off our fingertips, but it just isn't enough. The words have to come out in proper order, in proper form, to be what they should be.

We need to write correctly to be at our best.

There are people who think that writing cannot be taught, that there is no need for training or practice.
There are people who think that the only good writing is easy writing.

Writing, they think, should be as natural as breathing.

Routine Romance

It's amazing how boring genre romance novels can be after you've been reading outside that field. Thrillers. for instance, can be arson or kidnapping as well as murder  or escape. Family saga or adventure type stuff is as varied as people.

Not that there aren't outstanding romance writers, even those that follow the formula. There are, and most of them grow away from the formulas and let their skills shine. It doesn't matter if the skills are character development, plot, description, or just a convoluted mind. Good story telling is good story telling.

The reason I'm bringing it up is because the genre publishers are really slipping up. Recent romances that I have read are full of typos, grammar errors, and just plain silliness. The problems are almost worth the reading. A recent novel referred to the smart guy and the tough guy pair as the brain and the bronze. Another book from the same publisher informed me that the man's heart raced, and then his pulse did too. (That one struck me as so funny I texted it to many of my writer friends.)

Why read, you might wonder, if the stories and story telling are so bad.
These books, these (incompetent) authors have been published. Like any Unknown Author, I would like to be published. The best advice is always to read what is getting out there.

But do you know what? I believe I'd rather remain an Unknown than to publicly display my idiocy, my editor's inattention, and my publisher's uncaringness for the whole world to see. There's nothing noteworthy in my people's pulse keeping up with their heartbeat, and my brains guy is the one who's bronzed. It might bake his brain, but he's still pretty. and the story is about the brawny guy anyway. He's so much more interesting!

There's an old saying about keeping silent and being thought a fool or opening your mouth and removing all doubt. I think that should apply to being published, too.

In the meantime, I have a list of publishers who are really good for a laugh.

premiere

Two or three weekends ago, I watched a program, The Tudors, on BBCAmerica. It was ten episodes, One through ten, and it was repeated at least once. During the programs, the commercials were touting the new premiere (there's another kind?) of the series on Wednesday nights. That was interesting. The Tudors, especially wicked old Henry VIII, were interesting people, all five of them. And I was ready to take up the shows where they left off -- shortly after Anne Boleyn's execution.

Come that Wednesday night, imagine my surprise when the "new premiere" was episode 1 of the  exact same series that had been on at least twice that Sunday.

I've observed this before. The Harry Potter movies have had more premieres than they have fans, or so it seems. They have premiered on Pay TV, on cable TV, on network TV, and most recently they have premiered, individually, on this or that channel. Harry Potter has premiered on ABC Family channel about two thousand times. The 'premieres' now include a Wednesday night premiere or Sunday morning premieres.

I checked the most recent online dictionaries. Premiere is still defined as a first time appearance. Not a detailed first time appearance.

Not a synonym for rerun.

I don't watch Wednesday night premieres anymore. I've already seen the show.