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Things I Would Do if I were Ridiculously Wealthy
After I did all the responsible stuff like hire an attorney and accountant, pay bills, and give to charity, I would:
* Make my own dress form and sew beautiful vintage-inspired dresses, curtains, and bags.
* Paint, make art, and generally make messes in self-induced solitary joy.
* Go on photography expeditions and learn to use my Canon properly.
* Write – Poetry, short stories, long stories, articles.
* Read – I’ve got a ton of books stacked up waiting.
* Bake – I’d make wonderful loaves of Italian bread, pumpkin loaf, muffins.
* Build websites – for me, for other people.
* Shop on eBay for random things
Blink
The cursor blinks when you aren’t propelling it. Boop. Boop. Boop.
It is one line, not half an inch high and sometimes the words come before it can start it’s methodical “boop-boop-booping”. Sometimes not. Boop.
Boop. Boop.
I wanted to be a brilliant writer. Instead, I am a boop-chaser. Today. Maybe again tomorrow. I tilt my head to the side and wonder almost out loud if the booping is getting faster or if my words are just coming slower. QUICK! THINK OF SOMETHING! It boops!
Is it worse to make words that are empty or to sit in a cubicle at work, trying to chase the booper, slowy being driven mad with the incessant. nonstop. boop. boop. booping.
Boop.
If I blink in time with it, the drone of monotony disappears for a split second. If I look down at the keyboard and memorize the lines of letters, the “booping” sound in my head is replaced by t-y-u-i-o-p and d-f-g-h-j-k. But only for a minute.
It still boops. Each boop, a grain of sand in the hourglass that silently ticks away the granules of writing greatness that I am supposed to house. Or perhaps a giant skeleton, dead and hanging, dripping the last remnants of lifeblood down to the floor. Boop. Boop. Boop.
When I look to the puddle, there are no words in the inky blackness. Only my reflection.
Secrets
Something amazing happened today and I can’t even talk about it yet.
I kinda feel like I won the lottery…hell, like we all did.
*Sitting on hands until December*
Fuel
I’m going to publish a volume of poetry.
Today, I spent a couple of hours compiling the most palpable ones into a word document.
In the next few weeks, I’ll design the cover and release it into the world.
That is all.
Fall, She Comes.
Every year I wait for Fall. We are lovers, she and I. The best kind. We bring out the utter best in each other.
She, turning the leaves brash and brilliant shades of red to match my hair and I, offering up home-baked bread and footprints in dry leaf beds.
I am at my most creative in the Fall. The one time of year when the veil is lifted between me and my muse, Josephine. It is only in the Fall that I can look her dead in the eye without turning to stone and even though she mostly is aloof and cranky with me for only visiting once a year, we somehow find our groove and all is good in my creative wells.
Every good piece of writing I have ever done has happened in the fall. Every piece of art that ever sold. Every project that ever did anything worth a damn. It is only normal to me to feel fluttery and edgy as August slides into September. Soon, the days of September will burn out and there will be nothing left but the embers of me and Josephine and Fall, and we will hold hands and cackle wildly at the night sky.
That last bit sounds awful “coven-y” and Im a little itchy to delete it but just to test myself, I’ll let it stay. Maybe there is something a little witchy about creating playmates in your head and calling them “muses”. Im at a point in my life where I dont care what we call them, as long as they keep coming and bringing dreams and ideas and magical energy with them.
Pardon me while I roll out the red carpet for Fall, she is my very best lover.