and so it begins again. the reunion and the moving onward. or backward, as sometimes the case may be.

i love this space -- even though it isn't much of anything. i think i've said before that i like it best because not many people come here. i think it's the equivalent of sitting in the corner at a party -- the ones who matter will drift toward you for the conversation that needs to be had.

or something like that.

the work has begun again in earnest. i'm finding my writing legs again -- sorting out the best times of day -- which is a bit of a challenge seeing as how myself and the children are sharing a computer. that's actually a good thing -- it means i piss about less when i do have computer time and can fiddle away in my notebooks in the other time...which is a lot of what i like best anyway. i've chosen to work on what began as my NaNoWriMo 2010 project -- it won out for a secondary character that i suddenly became fond of. then today, someone stepped out from the edge of a clearing that i hadn't intended to matter but suddenly does. very much.  i love when that happens.

i watched the third Narnia movie this weekend...and the Railway Children. there's nothing quite like beautiful old stories to make you want to get back to writing.

i've written a few poems as well.

it's good to be back and even better to realize how this is exactly what i want to be doing.

whale songs

when the words take me -- and i mean when i really step over the threshold and into the river -- i am unreachable.

what frightens me more than not being able to come back, is perhaps not wanting to.

i need to remember that love anchors more securely than any knots i might tie with my own ink-stained fingers.

i was cleaning my writing desk today -- high days and holidays, you know -- falling in love with this space i've burrowed out here in the corner of the bedroom.

i think i'm supposed to wish for my own writing room -- and indeed, i have visions of a garden studio -- one half set up for painting and whatnot and the other half devoted entirely to the weaving of words.  i've imagined old, white-painted wooden tables and mismatched chairs. i think there's a wood-stove there too, for when the autumn days turn chilly.  of course it will have to be insulated so i can go there in winter as well.

but for now, i need to be in amongst my family.  my art table is in a corner of the living room -- which means i'm with the children as they're going about their little bits and pieces.

my writing desk though...that needs to be separate. i need the illusion of solitariness -- of isolation -- so that i can sink deep into the rushing waters of inspiration.

although i don't enjoy clutter in the slightest, one might accuse my writing desk of being rather so.  it's certainly a pain in the backside to dust all the bits of things and i'm constantly threatening to shave the cats bald for all the hair they leave behind as they blithely tread upon sacred ground.

i wonder, then, why i spend so little time here. it's quite perfect, really and i do adore it very much. i make the excuse that my chair is the wrong height. it's just a crappy old wooden kitchen chair that i scavenged from the rubbish heap. my desk is an old secretary's desk that was designed for the height of ancient typewriters -- so my skinny laptop rests too low on the surface.

i don't want to buy an adjustable chair because i'm rather fond of my old wooden one - hideously uncomfortable though it is.

i had carpal tunnel syndrome in years gone by -- all that shoveling of horse manure -- and my wrists are easily aggravated if things are at the wrong height.

so those are my excuses for not writing.

but i just had the brain-wave to put my computer up on something -- to make it higher.

it's now resting on a  rather disappointing volume called "The Element Encyclopaedia of Magical Creatures". it's disappointing because it has no illustrations. i had ordered it because it was only $5.

but i'm wondering if a bit of osmosis might seep upwards into the brain of my computer and enchant my fingers so they'll write the stories that are itching to escape.

for now, though, i need to get back to my housework. i just wanted to test the height of the computer. i think it's okay...although my left wrist is starting to ache a bit.

forgotten

i set this place aside for a while.  perhaps not consciously at first, but then it went under a dust sheet and i quietly imagined it didn't exist.

which is how it's been for me and my words this last few months. something about this space was connected to my writing.....it felt like the place where it belonged. i'd like it to be somewhere quiet that i can come and let the thoughts drift out of my fingertips.

beautiful adie tells it well...this push-pull for those of us who can write....who are drawn to write...who, by whatever means, must write; and how it's not altogether voluntary and not always invited.  there are more people who don't understand this than those who do.

i sometimes get anxious about not writing. i berate myself for 'wasting' this ability -- for squandering what i've been given. i get caught up in the 'ought-to'.  i didn't always feel this way. there was a time when i wrote because i had a story to tell.

i think the worst thing i ever did was take a creative writing class. truly, it ruined me.

i've written a novel. it's written for the tween/YA market {i've a whole other post about these arbitrary categories and the bollocks that is traditional publishing}. it's well-written, follows all the rules, has a good story and some interesting characters. by all accounts, after a few trips around the appropriate circles, i imagine it would likely be published.

and yet there it sits. waiting. one rejection down and me not arsed to send it out again. {which has nothing at all to do with the rejection, that doesn't bother me at all}

what i really want to do is write stories without ever intending them to be formally published. i would like to reclaim the freedom of that. if i could, i'd step into my way-back machine and never take that first class. i would have found something else to do in the evenings while i was gestating Savannah. because i think that the stories of my heart aren't necessarily the kind that most editors would want to invest in. oddly, this pleases me.

i get tired of hearing myself bemoan this point though -- i've gone up and down and around the issue so many times i'm sick of myself. 

so i've decided just to get on with it.

some of it might turn up here. most of it probably won't.  either way, it's a step in the right direction.

thank you, adie -- and you, tibbie...for reminding me of the magic.

mission statement

i want to write the books that fill an entire afternoon...and a little bit into the evening. or maybe they'd keep you up all night, leaving you bleary-eyed but happy on your way to something less inspiring.

i want to create a world that people want to escape to...to create characters that they'd like to invite over to dinner. i want to write so that people will look forward to that long train ride to work, just so they can crack open the pages.

i don't want to write clever, accomplished, esteemed and lauded  books -- i want to write the books that will make people love to read.