Friday, October 15, 2010

The Great Write Whale

Not sure if you've noticed, but I haven't written in a while. And it isn't just here, it's anywhere. I just plain haven't written in a while. Or thought about writing, or had an original and/or interesting idea for a topic. So after some deep, highly psychological self-evaluation (which is what I call incessant nagging from the husband), I decided to do something about it.

I discovered a book in the library that is meant to inspire the short story writer whose creative synapses have gone limp. It has a series of "exercises" meant to "inspire" the would-be writer. So far, I find it quite touchy-feely and it's difficult to get too far in the book at a time because you need eyes to read (unless your book is in braille, which mine is not), and my eyes are too busy rolling at the author's "suggestions" to get much reading done. But, it's what I have for now, and maybe it's worth a shot.

Therefore, in efforts to rid myself of crippling writer's block, I am starting the Great Write Whale experiment. On this humble little blog, I will post my exercises as I go through the book. Let me assure you now, what you are about to read is unlikely to be polished, or good, or even interesting. But think of it like watching, I don't know, Peyton Manning play football. (I don't care if you don't like football, just roll with the analogy. It's all I've got right now.) When Peyton's at his best -- his mind is sharply calling the plays at crunch time, his throws all are right on target, that sort of thing -- he's quite interesting to watch. Not so much when he's in the locker room lifting weights or running around the field warming up. Especially not when he first gets out of bed in the morning and is stretching and yawning and his breath probably stinks and he's a normal guy. That's me right now; as far as I'm concerned, this writing is me stretching. Well, more like yawning. And my figurative breath is probably a little foul. When I'm ready to get on the field, I'll alert the publishing companies.

Anyway, I'm not going to bother telling you the details of whatever exercise the book asks me to do, I'm just going to write. And if it's really that bad, blame the muse, not the writer.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Feeling

Ages passed. Countries crumbled. Gods fell and new deities arose. Planets collided on their courses and gasses blended to form new worlds, new galaxies.

At least that’s what it felt like.

And then she finally reached the end of the isle, where he was. And oh, the feeling.

Looking in his calm cerulean eyes, she had the sort of sensation those who have returned from the brink of death describe; her heart swelled with the overwhelming emotion of every time he had said “I love you,” broke with pain of each argument, soared with the joy of every memory they had shared. All of it, every little detail of every day since he came into her life flashed before her eyes in fractions of a second as he clenched her hands as much to steady her as to draw her into his own similar surge of emotion. And oh, the feeling.

After that, the words didn’t matter. The guests didn’t matter. The flowers, the music, the d├ęcor, the worries, the tensions, the tears, all dissipated into the ether of those two happy spirits saying once and for all to one another, yes, this is my joy, the fulfillment of my heart’s deepest wish -- a wish that lay dormant and that I never hoped to understand but that made itself overwhelmingly evident right now, right here, in this very second. And she realized in that moment, this is what happiness feels like. Yes, she was, finally, happy.

And oh, the feeling.