Time and Light Switches

When I lived by the sea I painted only mountains, Now I live near the mountains and paint only the sea.  That’s it.  That’s the story.  There is no other end to this story,  no alternative beginning.  It tells so clearly the story of my heart. It’s not a story I understand.   I am forever pulled in two directions, never settled in the place I’m planted.  I can’t stop painting the ocean, it’s taken up root in my veins.  And torn all the curtains  asunder.  My chest cavity smells of salt and winds contained inside a bony prison.  I am not as I once was.  I long to leave, and is that not the tale these footsteps tell.  I was not made for this life, and isn’t that a lie. Still the blood does fall, and so to do I. 

  I’ve nothing to say, none to report. These days will be longer still and I weep for the relief.  It is all counted for something,  that which I know not.  I’d like to leave, but I’ve nowhere to go.  If that not be evidence enough that I belong somewhere closer to Him. Well you could tie my shoes, because I’ll be off.  It’s all the same story, I’m only a piece.  I long for the meadows, as I may for all my days. If it be my lot in life I’ll take it For I have nothing to offer, little more to bring to the table. It will not always be like this, I know. I’ve lived through much fire, more than this surly.  Still the ocean would be better, calmer and more welcome.  I miss the trees, I think I always will.  So little to say, so little time to say it. Till next we meet, when the clouds have come.  Yes the clouds, they shall do me well.  May the winds carry you well, to peace and res...

Having written one novel, it currently is in its fourth draft, and having begun writing a second novel before totally finishing the first one is a funny writing process. I finished book one’s third draft (I’ll call them book one and two from now on, despite them being independent from one another, just for simplicity sake.) on a Friday and started book two’s first draft on a the very next Monday. That whole sequence of events is a story all onto its own.   I begun work on editing book one again this week, draft four here I come. And it’s caused a flurry of thoughts. Not the least of which being that my wiring process is a rather odd one. That’s news to no-one but still.  Early on in beginning book two I thought, “well crap, this one is already way better written then the one thats finished.” It was both self deprecating and funny. Of course each project becomes more refined than the one before it, I just wasn’t expecting it to be that evident.  However now that I’v...

Writing breaks. That’s the epiphany of the week. I mean honestly I used to know it and have a good handle on taking a break and coming back to the computer after a few minutes. I used to remember how much smother the words would flow when I’d take a break when I got stuck, instead of just staring at the screen hoping it’ll magically make sense. How very silly of me to have to be reminded that needing to take a break isn’t a sign of laziness but simple mental fatigue.   It finally clicked yesterday when I took a break to take a shower and eat supper. I had left off the chapter having finally understood why it was feeing so stunted. Realized it and then wasn’t sure how to fix it exactly and thought it would take a lot of work. Again very silly of me, I had it fixed in no longer than 20 minutes after I sat back down.  All I needed was a little bit of a break, that was it. I hadn’t all the sudden become a terrible writer, my identity wasn’t at stake, I hadn’t overnight lost th...