‘Not writing? Your muse isn’t speaking to you?’
‘She rarely does. International cell charges and what not. Besides which, she’s flighty and nearly impossible to understand. And she says I always misinterpret her intentions.’
‘Muses. What can you do, right?’
Dialogue: The Chaos of Stars, Kiersten White
Toon: B Gonzalez
Inky: I don’t know why I blame some cobweblike being for my own tiredness but there it is. Besides, my muse is a He, and He is allowed a fishing trip or two. Although why he never tells me He’s going is anyone’s guess. Or, when He’s coming back….
Mood: Gray. The wind has picked up and the clouds are rolling in. I suspect through empirical evidence it’s close to storming. Which happens to be one of my favorite types of days, if, I didn’t have to go to work.
I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows. And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.
Observation: George RR Martin
Illustration: found at pinterest
But a smell shivered him awake.
It was a scent as old as the world. It was a hundred aromas of a thousand places. It was the tang of pine needles. It was the musk of sex. It was the muscular rot of mushrooms. It was the spice of oak. Meaty and redolent of soil and bark and herb. It was bats and husks and burrows and moss. It was solid and alive – so alive! And it was close.
The vapors invaded Nicholas’ nostrils and his hair rose to their roots. His eyes were as heavy as manhole covers, but he opened them. Through the dying calm inside him snaked a tremble of fear.
The trees themselves seemed tense, waiting. The moonlight was a hard shell, sharp, ready to be struck and to ring like steel.
A shadow moved.
It poured like oil from between the tall trees and flowed across dark sandy dirt, lengthening into the middle of the ring. Trees seem to bend toward it, spellbound. A long, long shadow…
Excerpt: The Dead Path, Stephen M Irwin
Inky: ahhh, a Belgium Chocolate standard of a description. Loved it.
Toon: as noted.
Inky: this weekend I’m locked behind the door of my tiny paper strewn office, clicking away on the keyboard. My battle plan, to only come out to feed Muse cat, grab another flask of coffee, jar of olives, and a ham sandwich or two.
They, the universal one of course, say it is suppose to be beautiful outside. This time I can’t be tempted. I must resist. You, however, can give in. Unless you are like me needing to rework a portion of your manuscript. Go. Take in the good times, good friends, and plenty of sunshine! Just remember your journal.
Writing is…. being able to take something whole and fiercely alive that exists inside you in some unknowable combination of thought, feeling, physicality, and spirit, and to then store it like a genie in tense, tiny black symbols on a calm white page. If the wrong reader comes across the words, they will remain just words. But for the right readers, your vision blooms off the page and is absorbed into their minds like smoke, where it will re-form, whole and alive, fully adapted to its new environment.
Very Realistic Observation: Mary Gaitskill
Image: the odyssey online
Inky: Ugh, late nights, early mornings…
She’s reworking a chapter.
Image: found at gify
Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.
Great tip: Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Doing? It’s almost 10 pm here, I can hear crickets outside, feel a warm breeze across my shoulders, and hear the clacking of the blind string against the window sill. I can see the distant flash of light, but hear no thunder. The ceiling fan is going, and my pillow is awfully inviting. But, I’m a little uneasy.
A little known Inky fact – when it’s warm like this, I usually have nightmares.
So the questions this evening are: Will it rain, or no? Should I go to sleep, or no? And finally, should I pull the wine out of the fridge, and have a go at it before bed?
It is your destiny to return to the world.
Quote: Rick Riordan
Inky: And I have, returned that is. Much seafood, sunshine, fresh air, blue waters, and lively discussions later. I feel refreshed. Not sure about that destiny part, though.
Although it is raining. Suppose to all week…
I reckon that’s destiny’s way of saying, ‘I let you play, now you need to sit your butt down and work.’
Toon: Charles Schultz
Inky: It’s Saturday, my lovelies, of a holiday weekend. I’m going out, and a bit of advice, don’t wait up. I’ll be back at some point before Tuesday. So… See ya later alligator? Bye bye butterfly? How’s this? Be sweet parakeet!
I know. I know. Just leave.
I’m out the door, dinosaur!
Doing? Grabbing a backpack, keys, a bevy of sandwiches, a thermos of hot coffee and heading out the door.
Although I understand that all days are equal with 24 hours each, most of us agree that Friday is the longest day of the week and Sunday the shortest!
Observation: DS Mixell
Did you know? In the 1930’s the US was very close to adopting a 32 hour work week, but the US Government decided instead to follow other countries who were instilling 40 hour work weeks. That guy? The one who persuaded our folk to make that rather momentous decision? I’d like to meet him. Why? So I can kick him in both shins!
Doing? listening to Pandora Radio – Lights by Journey – drinking coffee, enjoying the part of each day that is just mine with the exception of today. Today, I’m sharing with you.
The sun is already up and golden. The porch swing is creaking as I push it back and forth with one foot. The other is crooked beneath me, as I lean back and draw deep of the breeze coming through the yard from offshore. Somewhere an owl is singing a lullabye, and the displaced cats who call the abandoned house next door home, are beginning to slink out from under the fence eyeing me in unrealistic hope. Not now. This is my time.
The fire trucks from the nearby station are waking, and moving out for their morning ritual. Soon bells, whistles and siren tests will sound signaling my moment is over and I will have to head in to shower. But for right this second, a bee is buzzing lazily near my roses and the warmth of my coffee mug is filling my hand. It is still my time.