Pages of Tears

Rust did not pour from my fingertips, at least not today. After nearly two months away from my work-in-progress I shuddered to return for I realize the difficulty of jumping back in after such a struggling sabbatical.

But today, after three days that came in fits and starts (whatever that means and a free Dove bar to the one providing an answer, no matter how contrived), I conquered the damn beast. At noon-ish I sat at the computer, opened up the document and set sail, first re-reading already finished pages, but that's how I roll. For whatever reason I have to review in order to remind myself where I left off and where to begin. The downside of the habit is that I become a bit bogged down in editing. But still, today even that didn't stop me, nor did the interruption of my sister who arrived for a visit, fat beagle on a leash in tow.

A welcomed break. This time of year our sunny days are a premium. Today it blazed overhead defying the chilled air, begging for those enclosed within walls to get out and walk. So I did. Myself, sister and two dogs in tow, we did the serpentine-style walk up my street. There's something about beagles and walking. They do so with nose plowing along pavement in search of pee-mails left by other canines. A slow, not so brisk pace.

And beyond the small break that lasted longer than my usual sprint, I still returned to the pages with a goal in mind: Stopping at 4:30 p.m. EST. At 4:45-ish I realized I came to a stopping point; that I had already reached a part of the story that I had struggled to unfold, and did so beautifully.

The feeling I experienced thereafter, and it still clings, was one that tops the best euphoria I ever had. Better than chocolate, a glass of red wine while watching cherry logs burning in the fireplace. And yes, dare I say it? Sex.

Returning to the pages of this particular story is very similar to returning to the place where I grew up. I look at the place where my home once stood, gaze at the treeline and creek that still flows nearby, take in the panorama of the deepest of Finger Lakes and feel the past wrap me in a protective, soothing, welcome home hug.

That's the feeling I have. Irreplaceable. All of it validating my true path, one that continues to keep me centered.

All of it whispers in my ear, "Welcome home, Kath."

Diving Into the Bottomless Pool

Today I committed to writing every day for the month. I've joined NaNoWriMo. My fingers are rusty; I'm sure the muse spits corroded iron. If only it'll forgive me for my absence; it couldn't be helped.

Still, over two months and my poor WIP sits idle waiting my return. I hope my muse has been patient, although I have kept her exercised with mu emotional poetry, thanks to my emotional situation of late that hit me like a ton of bricks. Oh, forgive the awful cliche. Remember my rusty fingers.

I am on a mission to follow in the footsteps of my friend who recently got a book deal. I want to be her, or at least feel the beauty of success, accomplishment and freedom to breathe on my terms and only my terms. No more editors looking over my shoulder, their shadow breathing their presence into my subconscious. No more worry of criticism from unknown places. That'll come soon enough.

Today I shall write as if my life depends on it (oh, another cliche), for perhaps my life will at some extent given my recent upset that procured so much poetry, both bad and awesome.

If only my muse will respect my absence as a necessary sabbatical, random as it is. I make today the beginning of my new life; a brand new day in my total control. No more posturing or excuses. It's time to move forward. Time to take control of me.