1) Write every day
2) Turn my short story Then Sang the Wind into the novella it needs to be
3) Edit Encroaching
I plan on doing all three and also getting distracted by a bunch of shiny new ideas, as is par for the course.
Writing Sample/Progress/Updates/Write-a-thon Blog
I'm entering the second month of being diagnosed with ADHD and expecting this to continue helping with my writing and meeting my writing goals. Here's a short non-fiction piece that's up on my patreon:
There is something about the rain.
The heavy curtain that crashes down, seeking entry and a welcome, dances its fancy steps against our rooftops and drives laughing humanity before it. It is relentless and sometimes destructive, but needed, oh so needed, vital to this fragile thread we call life. We burrow inside and listen to its passing, thankful for it, thankful when we don’t have to go out into it, thankful that we didn’t just wash the car.
There is something about an airport.
Designed to be ephemeral, transitory, transit itself taking off and arriving, people coming only to go, flooding from all angles and flowing out equally, a tide that surges with the sun rather than the moon. They are both quiet and loud, chaos and the sternest of order. They are symbols of hope and dream and despair and regret. They do not pass but we do; in a blink of an eye we are gone and they stay, awaiting the next wave.
There is something about a cat.
Small, moody, whimsical creatures allowing you to earn their affection and approval, deigning to be touched by oily, over-eager hands, rumbling when they’ve found the right position, right angle, right warm spot and you’ve found the right place to scratch, the right pressure, the right timing; it is a balance-beam with both wanting love and affection and one only having sharp and pointy means to communicate when it is not enough or too much or even sometimes just right. You cannot be unloved or unlovable if there is a cat.
There is something about learning a language.
The click in your mind when grammar reveals itself to you, when you understand it rather than simply repeating it over and over, when the boot fits the verbs, when the lines come together to make a character you know and can read and can use. The world is a little more open, a little bigger, a little more wondrous. Danke, gracias, xièxie.
There is something about a blanket.
Warm, enclosing, sometimes thin and yet protection; the temperatures can fall, the elements can rage, but you are held. Sleep tempts, soft comfort wrapped around you promising safety and allowance - give, yield, surrender, just a little. It’s okay here. It’s okay now.
There is something about cellos.
Deep, deep down delve the notes, reaching in and bringing out emotions long hidden, protectively tucked away, kept from the surface and now forced through as your soul breathes through the notes, the slide of bow on string. Oxygen reaches veins once more and you feel the low noises in fingertips, in lungs, asking why you’re not moving with them, why your heart pounds but your feet do not, not yet, suggesting, inviting, enticing. A cello is a boat and its song a river, carrying you along as you thrum with its power.
There is something about purple flowers.
Dramatic falls of wisteria, violet stars falling from the sky to kiss at shoulders and heads; lavender, proud and delicious, a carpet to wind a path through; allium, bold, round, happy, round, bright, round; monkshood, death in beauty and beauty in death; lay me to rest in a field of purple flowers, plant a wisteria over me, and I will be at peace.
Essay with ATB Publications
Drabble story with Shacklebound Books
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