I’m cold. I just finished a book report on Cheryl Moskowitz’s Wyoming Trail, and while I would like to think my chill has nothing to do with that woman’s dark journey…. Well, I’ll just heat myself some hot chocolate with a healthy dose of Kahlua and let that one alone, okeydoke? I am comfortable in dark places. I lived there for a long time, and reach back there with my fiction hands to hold on to that part of me. I’m not afraid of the dark. But it does make me feel cold, and with first snows and autumn gusts, a bit of heat and sweet and booze will go down nicely. I hope it’s warm where you are.
I’m going to take the Fiction Project down, this week, so I can cobble it together into something more cohesive without fielding the odd email question or personal message about the story that come to me a few times each week. I can show it to you when it’s done, if you would like, but only if you promise to reply with biting criticism and/or chocolate covered almonds by the crate. The whole idea of making the Project into a Book is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. I wasn’t going to do it. But these characters keep demanding attention, despite the Talk-Show Guru drivel I’ve been studying in school (in school!!!!), lately. And I’ve got another couple of story ideas tapping impatient feet around the edges of writing assignments, forum posts, and project activities for my crew. It’s getting a little crowded in my poor old brain. The correct pronunciation of citrouille keeps falling out, among other things.
I wrote about disillusionment as a little death, today, which is ironic considering those who love words (like me) deal constantly in creative manipulation of smoke, mirrors, and lithesome sequined distractions. But really the only illusion is certainty. What will happen when I finish grad school? Don’t know. Will it be worth the time and money invested? Don’t know. What will become of my stories if I send them out for the wider world to see? Don’t know. Literal death is not likely. (Though literary death is another story… *hyuck hyuck*…. Sorry.) Figurative death, the death of dreams, is impossible. (A fact too easy to forget, at least for me.) So I suppose if all I lose are my illusions about academia, words, and mirrors, that’s all right. No biggie. The smoke is no loss, either, come to think of it. I gave that up over a decade ago. (We’ll talk about the sequins another time.)
Anyway, thanks, as always, for reading my rambles. I’ll be absent, grouchy, and wrist-deep in language for awhile, but I hope to catch up with you all soon. <3