Some of you may not know that I am working on publishing my first novel. Those of you who follow “i wryte prettie” will likely know this, as that blog is designated to all things in the name of writing. Here, though, I had thought to expand the uchiwa — a Japanese folding fan — of my life, giving anyone who might be curious a closer look at the colors, shapes, and characters that comprise the person who is me. Second to my faith, I am wife to Michael, and third to that, I am, and always will be, a writer.
I spend my days tucked inside my bedroom, and further beyond that, tucked inside my bed, where a laptop habitually rests atop the book I’m currently reading. If you’ve ever stopped to wonder why I respond so quickly to comments and such, you will perhaps now understand why. My job, for however long I might be so privileged, is to finish editing this 1200 page beast. That is, if I can avoid succumbing to the distractions I sabotage myself with daily.
*Opens WIP document* “Oh, what? There’s a wrinkle in that shirt? Well, I must iron it right now, of course!” or “How can I be out of Q-tips?!? No. I simply will not accept that. I shall make my way as quickly as possible to the nearest Target and amend this harrowing news.”
Do writers really talk like that, you might ask? *ahem* When we’re feeling a tad pretentious, maybe. 🙂
Anyhow . . . The seed of intrigue was implanted in my mind by my most supportive and doting husband. You see, I didn’t always know I was a writer. And truth be told, there isn’t much in the way to prove this claim. I am not published, I have no degrees or accreditation which corroborate any right to this medium; I simply must . . . write.
Before writing, came reading. Lots and lots of reading. It is my postulation that before excellent writing must — no exceptions to the rule — come excellent literature. Inspiration. Passion. Desire. There must be something that takes hold of your heart, folds it possessively between concupiscible palms and forever ruins you to a life without prose.
After reading a series of books in which I could not, very literally, put down — I kid you not, I resorted to pulling off the side of the road to get a few more pages in before coming home from my then nannying job — and having to say goodbye to those characters who were not so much characters as they were my friends, I was, to put it mildly, bereft. I searched and searched and searched for a novel to grasp me the way those books had. I couldn’t find it, and so I remained in a state of despair until one day my husband casually suggests to me, “Why don’t you write a book?” to which I replied, “Me?! You must be kidding. I could never write a book,” I said, thinking that writers were whimsical creatures, with minds like fireworks, exploding and sparkling brilliance without any effort put forth. I cannot help but laugh at myself now. Suffice to say, I did eventually sit down, sweating and tremulous, to type out what was possibly the worst 20 pages of literary excrement ever written. Ha!
Nearly two years later and here I am — still editing. And editing and editing and editing. I could very well edit for the rest of my life, though my husband likely won’t let that happen. Thank God for him!
If you do you follow my other blog, consequently you may have already found and read my poetry. I apologize for the redundancy, but I woke today feeling pensive and romantic, and also with that unnameable something I surmise all writers contend with on their more creative days. My wish was to share something with you. This is a poem I wrote and entered into a contest. It did not win, but I love it all the same. I hope you do as well.
Also . . . just thinking out loud here; if there is ever something you would like me to read or look at, just let me know. Seriously. I cease to be amazed at the talent and creativity I’ve seen thus far while visiting blogs. Obviously I can’t get to it all on my own, but if you lead me there, I promise to take a sincere moment to enjoy whatever you have and respond.
Been waiting for you . . . wasn’t sure if you would come.
I’ve made an enemy of hope, acquainting myself until I was no longer wanted.
But you did come, didn’t you.
And now that you’re next to me, words evade,
tangling themselves like vines around a gate, serpentine and selcouth.
Never been alone, just you and I.
Insecurity’s voracious appetite sinks its teeth where I’m most uncertain
I falter . . .
questioning whether or not my feelings go unrequited.
Maybe I’ll wait.
Maybe just a minute more.
Back and forth this old wooden swing takes us,
aching and sore, sighing with each sway.
The green needles, still damp from heavens tears, tickle my bare, restless feet.
I try not to heed these trepidations, the hindrance to your splendor.
The sweet breeze has brought along company;
remnants of today’s flirtatious sunshine and this evening’s proud fire.
It musses with your inky hair,
spilling it in that way that makes me shiver — makes me curl back my fingers.
A hummingbird burgeons inside my chest, wings flapping chaotically, restricted.
It hurts so good, like stiff muscle uncoiling after a night of sound slumber.
I’m reminded why I’ve come.
Flaming pinks and spicy oranges glow and blaze, melding at the hand of the careless painter.
A lovely sight we survey, then I think
we could be orbiting the moon, dangling on Saturn’s rings, and I would never know.
I see only one thing, wait for only one thing, want for only one thing:
for your hand, a mirror image of my own as it rests by your side, to reach out and touch me.
I’ve dreamt about this moment many times,
so much that I can already feel the warmth of your soft skin.
But I still want it — I want you to want it.
My fist opens, one trembling finger at a time, stretching towards your hand.
Stealing a glance at your face, I search to see if this pleases or frightens you.
I find your eyes cast down, ebony blankets fluttering softly across your blossoming cheeks.
I wait . . . vulnerable . . . exposed,
hoping you will meet me half way.
Waiting . . . and then
I can wait no more.