Declaration of Me

I'm in a dangerous mood today. Since I don't have anyplace suitable (i.e., private enough) for dancing like a lunatic and screaming at the top of my lungs...

I’m alone here
in this room
with the music
in my head
and my feet
move silent
to the beat
of the drum
that I hear
in my head
in my room
while I’m alone.

I've always been alone. I remember in seventh grade, my English teacher gave me a compliment--or at least, I interpreted it as a complement at the time. I wrote a half page story and she said it contained a novel's worth of buried fury. So I decided then that I was going to be a writer. Thirty years later I find myself with an obsession that has me by the throat and won't let go.

It echoes in the lonely silences
an endless twisting rhyme that rules my world.
Not only sound, but color, rhythm, light,
it dances through my day and dreams my night.

I wake and free the rhythm and the rhyme
to twist the dance into a human form.
The story shapes itself--I have no part--
and dreams escape the boundaries of time.

I sleep and shape the color and the light,
then form a dream into reality.
The painting moves my hand--it is not planned--
a lonely dance of medium and life.

The art creates itself with paint or ink,
with quiet promises it leads me on.
The end of life, the last of this creation
shall be my final epitaph in stone.

The obsession has never moderated, nor do I want it to. I've always been a writer. But sometimes there's an edge, a hint of something else beyond "just" a writer. Possibility. And I have to dance, or sing, or just sit and fidget because the joy of being fills me to overflowing and I just...can't...

Living consists of
a constant awareness
of the simple things--
breath, sunlight, wind, blood

But then there are the quiet moments, when I sit and listen. I was taught (not told, taught) to be inconspicuous, not to put myself forward or speak my thoughts. And so we have at the last a declaration of me. Take it as you will, because once these things are out of my mind they're out of my hands as well.

Duck and hide,
Don't draw attention
To the beauty you
See inside yourself.

That's boasting.

Duck and cringe,
Waiting to be attacked
For daring to change
The unchangeable.

That's rebellion.

Stand and wait,
Because boasting
Is the beginning
Of rebellion, and
Rebellion has
its own ends.

That's a given.

Is it International or Irrational WSG?

Today is the first Wednesday of the month, which means IWSG, or Insecure Writers Support Group. This is when a bunch of writers moan and gripe and complain (or cheer, chortle and giggle) all over the internet.

Today isn't a moan, gripe and complain day. Today I want to go outside and sit in the sun, but if I try I'll end up with a sunburn.

I have problems with bright sun. I much prefer cloudy days as long as they're not too cold. I burn up in the sun. I feel like a lizard, sliding out into the sun to warm up and then sliding back into the shade because I get too hot. My computer also doesn't like the sun. Its screen isn't bright enough to compete, so I sit inside and gaze longingly out the window.

I'm up to the climax on the fourth book in my Spirit Cycle. The first two books are out, the third is in editing. Trying to balance a climax with six people is difficult, so I find myself staring longingly out the window.

Maybe I need to do original research and get all my nessies (that's nieces and nephews) for a free-for-all.

On the other hand, editing proceeds for Guardian and Heart of the Castle. I'm working on figuring out marketing and trying to keep up with life on the side.

Or something. And for some unknown reason I can never remember what the first letter of IWSG stands for. I keep having to look it up...

Spring Pruning and the Author's Backlog

We started pruning the grapevines last week, and I'm considering what to do with the trimmings.

Normally I'd say compost them (we use everything that comes out of the ground, short of a few truly noxious weeds) but a few years ago we tried that. We cut the vines up into little tiny pieces and buried them in compost. A year later we had green, green, green!

The vines apparently didn't care that they weren't supposed to grow, or from such tiny pieces. This spring a handful of them came back after the winter and I ruthlessly yanked them out, since no one wanted them. And yes, we did ask.

The thing is, I have 450 mg + on my computer of stories I've never done anything with. Well over 1500 files of individual tales that have a page or less, sometimes only a single line. It comes from never throwing anything away. Since I was 8 years old, I've never deliberately thrown away the start of a story. I have a thick file in my drawer that I've never taken the time to transcribe.

I could bury them in compost and hope a few grow, but I'm afraid that won't work for anything with less vitality than a Concord grape. I could go back and look through them, hope something takes root, but I have new ideas, new fun ideas that I don't want to put aside for yesterday's attempts.

I honestly don't think I'll ever go back to most. I've pruned the vines away and they're out of mind. But from time to time when I start a new story I find the seed of something I started years ago is ready to come out.

I guess the grapevines were practicing, and if one out of 100 comes up, that's pretty good odds.

Unless no one wants my stories, in which case I will chortle madly and enjoy them myself.

Interview!

This coming monday I will be interviewed on One Year Until Look Launch by Ginger (otherwise known as TZ Wallace for reasons I haven't been able to discover--nor have I asked).

This month she's inviting authors she's met in the blogosphere to interview on her blog. In her own words, "I just really dig the idea of talking to people about their writing, and their experiences, and their method (or lack thereof), and their inspiration."

I also have been invited to do a guest post on StrandsOfPattern in a couple weeks.

Come out and visit! I'll post again when the interview goes up.

Lauren