Wind, Fear, and Beauty

More wind storms than I can count this week. Fortunately, no trees fell on my house, which is a fear of mine. We have another storm tonight, and I hope the trees stay strong. I do like watching the forms of tall fir sway in the wind, and the sound of so much air forced through the branches. The whistles of the pipes and gutters in the house catch as the air crashes against the windows and the cracks beneath the doors.

Long ago, I learned some things scary can also inspire something else. I have a perfect image of a cascade of sparks spilling over a cliff in Malibu looking like a glowing red waterfall. The brush fires I feared more than anything growing up.

Before the fires were the thunderstorms and tornadoes in Indiana. At the age of five, I knew green churning sky meant something strong and fearful. To this day, I still think it was beautiful.

Sublime.

Winter Settles In

Okay, I confess. The one season of the year I find a tad difficult is winter. I suppose it has something to do with growing up in a Southern California beach town. 60 to 70 degrees most of the year was typical (and, truthfully, kind of boring sometimes). Here on Orcas I face dim daylight hours, early sunsets, late sunrises, and cold, damp weather. Usually, it's not quite cold enough to snow, but chilly enough to feel miserable. I know spring will come soon enough--the first signs in February, but now I have to hunker down and face the months to come.

At least the outdoors doesn't pull me away from my work. A sweater, a cup of tea, and my laptop.
And, of course, a story to finish.

Hit over the head

Twice I have had my scalp split open. I still have a scar on the back of my head from one. This is one of the reasons why I wear my hair long. The other is to disguise the size and shape of my enormous square head.
So now you know.

After the accidents, I tried to write poems searching for a metaphor for my life. Why did I want to get inside my head? I'm not sure my poems ever revealed anything more than the vast disarray of my daily thoughts.

I think of this poem by the brilliant Stevie Smith:

A Debutante

I cannot imagine anything nicer
Than to be struck by lightening and killed suddenly crossing a field
As if somebody cared.
Nobody cares whether I am alive or dead.

Beyond the petulant voice of a isolated teen (at least that's what I think), there's the line "Than to be struck by lightening and killed suddenly crossing a field."
Struck by inspiration, like lightening; the force that kills everything ordinary. The focus becomes the inspiration, the extraordinary.

The car accidents--unfortunate events that happened over twenty years ago. I am fortunate to be alive. From time to time I am struck, as if by lightening, and the ordinary world dissolves away.

Perhaps that is why I wanted to get inside my brain; I wanted to know inspiration works. I wanted to find a way to control it. Or, perhaps, my injuries were simply the results of two car accidents, and, as a writer, I'm looking for meaning where it cannot be found.

I can't help it.

Manuscripts, Tigers, and Plays. Oh my!

...Well, not the tigers. Unless you count my little tiger-like Scruff, and her ability to interrupt any moment (work, sleep, phone calls...) for attention.

I'm almost done with my wip, and my brain is most anxious. "Hurry, Hurry," I say. And then, "slow down." The tug-o-war between product and quality will work itself out, and I will have a completed manuscript soon.

Meanwhile, I have another presentation to do at Doe Bay Resort next Monday. This time I will speak/perform with my most excellent playwright group. I unearthed my ten-minute play from a couple of years ago, The Magicians Library. I look forward to the silly.

I find it interesting how I keep coming back to humor and comedy. I seek serious and find my way back to silly. My play and my wip make me laugh.

And, there's nothing wrong with that.

Finally!

What a week!

I came back from a super cool surprise birthday trip to Dillon Beach for my Dad, and I returned to a massive grading fest. All week I have been evaluating students' work and dreaming of evaluating my own.

My dreams have been nice though. I thought of a new story that ties nicely into a story I thought up years ago. I love the pairing I find between story ideas. Now, back to work on my wip; I need to get this done soon.

I love California with crashing waves below windswept bluffs. Perfect.

Chase them away or invite them in for tea?

I'm speaking of demons. The kind that have been tormenting me since as long as I can remember.

Fear Demons that lurk in the recesses of my mind. The ones that come forward to tap into my almost pleasant day with a reminder that something more sinister exists in the world.

Or, perhaps, it is my reality.

When I was little, I felt I had no choice. I would scream and run. I would curl up in a ball in my bed. I would read book after book to escape.

When I got older, I learned how to cope: Exercise, a healthy diet, baths, meditation, and an occasional piece of chocolate. Write something funny! Escape!

Now I'm thinking I shouldn't run anymore. I'll invite the demons in and offer them tea.

I wonder what they'll say?

Squeezing Words

My current wip was a screenplay in its last incarnation. The basic storyline was there, and I added the details. Now, I'm facing a challenge. I seem to be slowing down at 34,000 words. This appears to be a little short. A strange problem indeed since my last novel went well over the 64,000 words I ended with.

The whole issue of word count requires balance. Obviously, I want to work within the guidelines for the genre, but on the other hand, I don't want to add a bunch of stuff that doesn't add to the story. I want to create a world and believable characters. I want to have a rich landscape for my readers, but I don't want them wading through a muck of excess words not relevant to the story.

Perhaps this week thousands of words will fly from my fingertips.
Or, perhaps not.