I’m tired and reasonably useless feeling today. The weather has so much control over moods. It’s nuts. I should make a note to explore that further for story elements. There are possible oranges to pick there for sure.
So, I’m midway through the week where I’m working purposefully light, and the kids are barely in school. The transformation outside from Winter to Spring is causing brilliant sunshine and chilly dampness to alternate days, so I have one day where I’m Eeyore and the other where I feel more like Tigger.
I have no idea why my go-to reference there was Winnie The Pooh.
I’m uncharacteristically, ultra-prepared for my daughter’s birthday, which is this weekend. I’m usually scrambling around until the last second, but thanks to Amazon, places that hold and take care of birthday parties, and my motivation to do both three weeks ago. It possibly helped that my daughter started a countdown on the kitchen calendar. I’m covered. Though as I type these words I have an overwhelming suspicion I’m forgetting something important. It’s crazy to me that my oldest is going to be eight. We have both done a lot of growing up the last chunk of years.
While I was cooking last night, I got hit with an impressive wave of creativity. (I’m extremely humble, by the way.) The first chapter of The Immensely Powerful has been plaguing me. I realize this is dramatic, but it is also the truth. Book 2 is on the way out of my hands and into my editor’s, and it’s been feeling totally ready for the journey, except for the first chapter. Which naturally turned to three chapters while I was cooking spicy pork with rice.
I love to make dinner for my family—I think it’s my favorite and possibly only domestic thing I genuinely enjoy doing. I adore a clean house, but the actual act of cleaning makes me grumpy and causes me to yell at my family. Laundry is tedious. Bleh. But, I do love to cook. I don’t follow recipes, but I get general cooking times from Google searches to avoid food poisoning. I play loud music in the floral headphones my son got me for Christmas, drink some hard cider and have a little “me party” in the kitchen while I put out a meal. Last night I was listening to Toad the Wet Sprocket and bam I had what I was looking for. It was in the back of mind past the haunted forest the entire time. I placed the sparkly red pen on my polka-dot magnetic shopping list pad stuck to the side of my overpriced refrigerator that is too big for the space it’s in because measuring isn’t my strong suit. By the time dinner was finished cooking, I had managed to trap a ton of awesome content onto pink-hued paper—it looks like most of it is keepable.
I find it funny—in a hair eating and muttering outlandish sentences under my breath soft of way—how easy writing is at times, and how challenging it is at others.
That’s part of it, though, isn’t it? Without one, you can’t have the other. Those moments like last night where everything is so clear and fluid is what I’m always chasing. I think along the way little secrets on how to find paths into that state of mind appear visible. Sometimes I feel like I’m walking down a long and twisty hallway knocking on every door I pass. The whole plot can be like the white whale at times. The hunt and adventure to find the whole story is ninety percent of the experience and the point.
Well, that’s it for now.
I need coffee.
Then, it’s onto Podcast tinkering.
Til next time.