Blogging Complications

My apologies for the lack of blog entries. Several complications have arisen that have prevented posting.

The good news:
None of us here at home are sick anymore. Huzzah to that!

Difficulties:
1. My father had a heart attack.
2. Our phone line is entirely on the fritz. I've had to do all internet things from the library (where I am currently). This will continue until the lines are fixed, so future blog entries will be few and far between until then.
3. The end of the school year means an increase in busyness. Sewing costumes for a school play, getting The Older Daughter to rehearsals and attending the play kept me busy for a week (right on the tail end of Dad's hospital stay, too).
4. Attending The Older Daughter's reading of her winning essay at the local VFW last night after three days of frantic attempts to find said essay. Her teacher finally located a copy, may she live in sunlight forever.

More good news:
Dad is home and a little restless, I think, at being cooped up. He came over yesterday, and we made plans to totally rewire the phone lines in the house for/with me. :) This should be fun.

Sick

Fever. Chills. Sinus pain. Muscle aches.

I feel so bad my chocolate bunny has not even been licked.

NaPoWriMo efforts on hold.

(On the other hand, lots of great poets have written on drugs. Just think what a bottle of Nyquil might do for one's verse!)

Friday Quote: On Being Exceptional

"The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely."

---Lorraine Hansberry

Thirteen Things That Drive My Husband Batty

1. My cold feet against his bare legs in winter.
2. I wear crop pants.
3. I have a neti pot...
4. ...and use it.
5. I prefer to mow the grass in fun designs (think Indian or Celtic knotwork) rather than doing a complete section at a time.
6. If a book is very boring or very interesting, I have no problem with turning to the back (or the middle) and reading there for awhile.
7. I am chronologically challenged (read, oblivious). Dinner gets started when the sun begins setting, a problematic issue in spring and summer.
8. I dislike wearing shoes.
9. I forget to turn off the stove burners and oven...
10. ...and to shut the windows when the heat is on...
11. ...and a couple of times, to pick up the children after school (Children? What children? Whose children?!).
12. James Fenimore Cooper amuses me.
13. I think trees talk.

Rediscoveries--The Writing Process: Time of Day

Many writers and writing coaches I know or have read say that morning is the best time to write. When I was in college, I used to stay up all night, writing into the wee hours of the morning but didn't get much done in full daylight. Partial cause was, indeed, procrastination and looming deadlines, I'll admit, but I also simply thought better at night; the flow of words and images was stronger and clearer. Maybe it was the silence, my roommates all asleep, outside traffic practically non-existent in our little residential neighborhood. Or maybe it was the assurance of no interruptions, the security of isolation in my basement chamber at a time of day when I knew no one would need me; no one would call.

Nineteen years later, I still write most easily late at night. Yes, maybe procrastination is still a factor (my NaPoWriMo emails have gone out after the midnight deadline two days in a row, now), but even that aside, night is still my favorite time to write. Great Scott! and the girls are asleep, and the house is a small one, so no housework can be done without waking them, thus I'm relieved of the obligation to attend to the practical household matters--the omnipresent bane of any sort of creative concentration I might attempt. No one calls. No distractions present themselves. The night is mine.

I've tried writing in the morning (i.e. Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way recommendation), but there is never enough time, and mornings demand a great deal of concentration as it is. There are two girls to get up and feed, errands for which to prepare, sometimes meetings to attend, and lots and lots and lots of things to remember. There are pressures and insanities in the morning, and while insanity may have inspired a great many writers, this one thinks it's highly overrated as literary motivation goes. Unless one is writing about large, overcooked oatmeal monsters, that is. Mornings are excellent motivation for large, overcooked oatmeal monster works. Angry large, overcooked oatmeal monsters. Angry, large overcooked oatmeal monsters who can't find their car keys and who have 8:30 a.m. appointments with the school speech pathologist. Oh, yeah.

One of the books I've been reading about organization (You! Yes, you! Quit your snickering!) advises its readers to consider what things they do that work well for them already and to build on those things rather than chucking everything out the window and trying to adopt someone else's system, whether that system be for time or environmental organization. Perhaps I need to stop trying to write on someone else's body clock, to stop feeling guilty for my wee hours production. Because, it's working: I'm four for four in rough draft turnout, a totally unheard of thing.

Pondering.

Unexpected Swing

It could very well be the sunshine, or maybe it's the sound of birdsong wafting through the open windows with the breeze. Whatever it is, I've awakened the last two mornings feeling more alive, lighter, even (brace yourselves) happier than I've been in a long, long time. Despite allergies and a wall of dishes to be washed by hand and a yard that in in desperate need of mowing and three tabards to make for The Older Daughter's school play, I feel wonderful when I open my eyes in the morning!

Know what I think it is? Not writing, no. Having written! Yes, thus far I'm two for two on the poem-a-day effort. (Well, two poems and a bit of horrible doggerel, actually, but who's counting?) I go to bed satisfied. I wake up...happy. The word is alien in my mouth, but sweet. Happy... Happy... Happy...

It's like living in a whole new plane of existence. Nirvana must be like this--only maybe with the dishes washed.