Where I Belong

Are you sticking to your routine? Staying aware of your focused desires? What is eating up your time? When are you asleep, unconscious? These are questions I ask of myself. Can lose hours watching television or worrying. Think about it. Think of the books, articles, poems, short stories, novels to be written instead.

I love you, Sheela. Now, let's continue.

To Lou and the Rest of the Equasion

I've got my five-subject notebook and Dr. Lou Willett Stanek's book, "So You Want to Write a Novel." Yes I have a graduate degree in creative writing, but let's be real. Okay, let me be real. My education is lacking. No fault of my alma mater, just the facts. When I went, the classes were good, but I could have used a lot more! More classes, more training, more push, more information. That said, this little book by Lou is enough because if you are a writer, you simply write and work out the kinks. I have been ultra lazy. "Daydreaming is just a part of the creative process," she says, and I am guilty of only participating in one part of the whole.

So I have my notebook with a section for characters, titles, observations, eavesdropping, borrowed things, and words, words, words. And I've got another writer on the same timeline as me, and we are nudging and pushing each other to make our September deadline.

My novel in waiting has characters who came to me three years ago and are still as alive as ever. They stand (or sit) in my brain, waiting, waiting, patiently waiting for their story to come completely alive on the page. Stephen King calls it "the fossil" found in the ground, waiting to be told. I have found a fossil and need to uncover it.

I am thankful to have found this fossil and I am thankful for Lou. I will carry this notebook with me everywhere and use it. I have vowed to write in chunks everyday, no matter what. And as Lou suggests, will only buy overcoats from now on which can hold my notebook.

And I will write. Daydream and write. What a life. What an existence. If you catch me staring at you, yes, I am observing and you may be the prototype for my protagonist. Take it as a compliment and go on reading your newspaper. I am only doing what I do best.

Finally.

King of His Domain

A postcard of a photograph taken by Jill Krementz of Stephen King in his office in Bangor, Maine in 1995. I keep this close to me to remind me to do what I love; to surround myself with what I love. Look at his dog. Everybody is in his element.

The Thrill of Seeing the Unknown

Two days ago I was going to work. It was the second day of record breaking heat for July in the Northeast. I got off the F train and saw a mother with fair skin, about 10 years younger than me, wearing what looked like a house dress, and her face was entirely too red, a water bottle in her hand. Her husband and she and two younger sons who seemed about 10 and 8 walked on the platform, noticeably lost. "Where are you going?" I asked the younger of the two boys, and he turned to me, his face ablaze with excitement and said, "We are going to the Statue of Liberty!" I recognized an accent, maybe British, maybe Scottish or Irish. He was so head to toe delighted with their destination that he caused happiness to rush into me, as well, and into another worker who I told the story to once at my workplace.

That's what genuine, innocent intrigue can do. His parents were flush and morbidly crushed by the weather as was I. But this darling boy created a breeze which is still with me when I think of him.

May he not only find the Statue of Liberty, but stay as enthused and open to see what he has not seen before only heard about.

Long may that sugar run.

Somewhere Over the Deadline

A college friend from our days in creative writing got in touch with me back in March and now we are coaching each other to finish a writing project. "How will we monitor our progress?" he asked, so I came up with some severe deadlines. First 100 pages by end of June, second by end of July; first draft read by chosen Reader by mid August, corrections and finished second draft DONE by September 20 (my father's birthday).

We both excitedly agreed.

I emailed him a few days ago, admitting my slow progress, and asking about his, and his reply indicated he had not gotten past his plot outline. Instead, he is staring at an endless stack of essays and projects to be graded since he is a college professor and teaching this summer.

I went to bed last night doubting my abilities as a writer, but even more, doubting my disciplinary skills. I wrote back to my friend, stating such.

As always, confession is indeed good for the soul. It cleared something in me. This morning, I woke up and decided to build a new routine - however my creative process indicated and needed. I felt my spirit guides giving a sigh of relief. "The kid's finally getting it," I suspected them saying.

So here I am on July 2, way past first draft deadline. My cat is meowing at me because he wants to be brushed before he descends into his daily ritual of sleeping all day, and I am sitting here, posting a blog.

And it feels right.