Writing again - sort of

Excerpt from untitled WIP:






I kissed him goodbye, took a deep breath, and went ahead, so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I preceded him out of the room, heard him walk away, with no more words to say.

I couldn’t watch as he parted the curtain and walked out of my life. Those brief moments spent together were some of the most exciting I’d ever experienced, and my heart broke to think that I would never see him again.

He lived the life I wished I could. No strings, no responsibilities except for himself. On days when life gets too rough, I know I’ll spend time wishing I could be that lucky, wishing I was with him.

He touched my life in the way he touched my body: with passion, flair, laughter and spontaneity. In the 24 hour period we were acquainted, I’d been more relaxed in my skin than I have been in 20 years. I found myself moving more freely, laughing with abandon, flirting with not a care in the world. I danced, I sang, I loved. I was free from all chains, all reality.

In 24 hours, I managed to fall in love; not with a man (completely, the jury is still out on that, as fucked as that sounds), but with life and it’s possibilities.  Yes, he was the catalyst for that. I knew it wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, and I didn’t let myself think about it, because I know I’ll never feel that free again.

He made me long, he made me want, in ways I haven’t for a long time. He made me bleed love and life, and then injected me with it just as quickly as a junkie shoots heroine. He himself is a drug – quick acting, and just as addictive.

And just as painful to quit. Because I’m sure I will never see him again.

Do I regret our short acquaintance? Never. This was a time to live with no doubt, and no lies. It was the most honest I’ve ever been with someone, with the people around me. No reason to hold back, no reason to regret.
 

I will never claim to know him in any way. We barely spoke of anything of any importance. We barely knew each others names.

And even as my name and face fade from his memory the further away he gets, his will never fade from mine.

As Prince wrote – life is just a party, and parties aren’t meant to last.

Neither were we.

I hope to see him again. I hope that it’s before I’m too old to enjoy another night like the one we had. I hope, at some point, he looks back and remembers, even vaguely, our night, and it makes him smile.
 

Because I’ll never forget.

It's like the Great Wall of China up there...

I'm talking in my head.

The writers block. The wall is so high that if you cut my skull open, I'm sure it could be seen from space.

But I'm not going to complain - not now. Because it's Christmas, and it's a tough one already. Not one day has gone by this month that I haven't cried. But that's to be expected, right?

I know my dad would want me to go on - to have the Christmas spirit and continue all the traditions that we've established.

We're lucky we got the tree up this year.

My mom can't listen to any music - hasn't been able to since he passed. When she's not home, I put on the carols. Try to get some Christmas spirit going.

We used to have a "war" in the house - Jimmy Buffet's Christmas Island v. The Carpenters Christmas Album. Guess who's was who's? It kind of left the kids in the middle. My brother didn't care too much. Me? I love both.

So I've been listening to both.

Now, unfortunately, I don't know how to put something up on youtube. And my dad's favourite Jimmy song isn't on there. It's called Merry Christmas Alabama (Never Far From Home). I'd love to put it up here for everyone to listen to. (If anyone can figure out how I can do that, please LMK).

What I will do is put up one of my favourite carols - sung by the incomparable Lea Michele (yes she's on Glee, but her vocals are just incredible).





Hopefully I can find a way to make a few more posts before the holidays are over.

I think it's what my dad would have wanted.

Merry Christmas, every one.

The Bug in my Brain

I'm telling you - there's one in there.

Or maybe Sommer's zombie exterminators missed one of their targets, and it's eaten it - I can't really be sure.But something is definitely missing up there.

See, I LOVE to write. For years, it was how I escaped, what I did when I was bored, and something I took immense amounts of pride in.

Lately, well, I seem to have a problem dedicating myself to my writing time. Things at work are SLOW to be nice about it. And in the past, I would have welcomed the slow time to write. After all, I have about ten serious WIP's, and a few dozen ideas kicking around in my skull.

Yet, lately, when I sit to put my fingers to the keyboard - Bejeweled Blitz winds up on my screen somehow.

*hanging head in shame*

I know - it's a disgrace. And then, if I'm home, I can find a dozen or more things on the television to sit through, rather than bring to life the wonderful characters that are just waiting for me to spring them from their prison.

I don't know where my brain has gone lately. I really don't. And to be quite honest, it's pissing me off.

After work, once in a while, when I have the house to myself, it's quiet, and peaceful, and the perfect time for writing. All day, I'll sit wherever I happen to be, and I'll have scenarios, characters and plot lines springing around my head like Tigger on meth.

But when it comes time to set it all down, and create, I stall. Hell, even while writing this blog I've taken three Blitz breaks. Maybe one reason is that things I write, some get taken the wrong way. People sometimes read into it a little too much. They think that I'm always the main character in everything I write - and some important people feel that it's not complete fiction. I mean, I've never made it a big secret, I do tend to take a few things from real life. Mostly settings, personality traits from others, even secondary situations now and again. But in no way is any complete piece reality.

Maybe that stalls my hand. Even though, I can't control how people will read into things, just as I can't control if they'll enjoy it or not.

But whatever the reason, I've stopped writing lately. And it just makes me feel, I don't know how to describe it.

Empty maybe - and a little bit like a fraud.

Because maybe I'm not a writer, like I always thought I was. Maybe I'm just playing at this, playing at getting my publishing certificate. I don't think I am, but who knows what the sub-conscious is up to.

I'm kind of feeling lost.

So I'm hoping the bug (or zombie) really did eat my brain - because I don't want to think that after almost thirty years of writing, I've lost my passion.