Year nine rewritten, another section of my novel awaits; year ten when grumbling discontent pecks at the ritualistic nature of my anorexic, adolescent existence. I read it over noting the schism between the words on the page and the words I’d like on the page.
I’d love the writing to convey the essence of my experience, clear, varied, unique and unforgettable. I remind myself of the beauty of the creative process. Sometimes it’s frustrating. On those days I sit here, looking out at the rainbows cast by a crystal hanging on the porch and trying to get the words to flow.
Today, I tried to blog. The words refused to flow, so I sat with it. This is what happened.
The crux: What is the blog about?
Success it seems comes from niche, excellence, and passion. An avid note taker, I filled a few more pages of a notebook with advice. The question, however, rattled around in my head all weekend. An answer would come, sooner or later.
What is it that I am good at? What do I have the authority to comment on? What is it I am actually trying to do each Monday morning when I compose my post?
I woke early; the cuckoo clock told me it was half past something. Coddled in the warmth of my bed, I wondered half past what. The night outside black and windy gave no clue.
I wondered would I go back to sleep or hear the clock chime the upcoming hour?
My wondering grew, engaging me in the senseless thought that lies between awake and asleep.
I’ve been chugging through the past couple of weeks, flat and low. A trip up to Bendigo, to see the Marilyn Monroe exhibition seemed just the thing. The summer temperatures ebbed away and the shade felt cool, pregnant with the coldness of the winter to come.
Autumn leaves along the way boasted their impending demise, bold in the face of death. Maybe they were screaming and I couldn’t hear them.
I love blogging on Monday morning. It sets the tone for my author-self for the week. Usually I find inspiration reasonably easily but today, my mind stayed immobile and blank. This impromptu poem is about the blank.
Traveling for the past six weeks, my perspective changed. I admit it had to.
Turkey invited me to share her concern for the changes which may tether liberal thought, as war and politics spread the glue of fear. I knew fear, my novel unaltered for months now. Feeling guilty, I kept mulling but not writing.
The sign on this page said, “Happy Blogging!
Like all diligent students I went through the equivalent of an intro to blogging. It seemed so simple and logical. With childlike enthusiasm I clicked on the buttons and got momentarily disoriented in the sea of choices. Although a little spacey and uncertain, I remembered why I had put myself here.