My Problem with Potter

Just finished the 4th Harry Potter book (short review to follow) and I've realized a few things. These books act rather like Dementors to me; they drain my soul of all creative thought. Now, I am entertained by them, but I find that my mind isn't working in the background on my own stories while I'm reading--that's abnormal for me.Image via Wikipedia

They've put me in a dead zone--nothing much creative coming out of me at all right now--and if I could answer the question once asked about my own writing, "Do you want to write something of mass appeal or literary merit?" I'd have to say that literary merit is, by far, my preferred choice.

Creative Blizzard

Image by TW Collins via FlickrIt was an interesting* week, was it not? Worked a lot, but didn't work much. Tons of sun, but a blizzard and below zero temperatures. Revelations and new beginnings.

*And, each time I say interesting I think to myself, "A professor once said (how often do I start with these four words--a product of nine years of college?), 'Interesting is the word you use when you can't think of a better word to use.'" I've decided that my mental thesaurus for that particular word isn't going to interrupt my thought flow any longer.

I spent the afternoon talking to a long-time friend (and psychologist) over a beer at a bar about life, last night's incredible dream, and my book. The revelation that I had earlier in the day was this, I need her on my book team to help me analyze what it is I'm trying to say--the story that I'm trying to tell. The combination that she provides--knowing me, a lifetime of exploring the metaphysical, and a daily foray into psychology--is a sounding board that has already been chock full of motivation, support, and thought.

Since I was a kid, her and I have always carved out our own space for conversation, either publicly or privately. In fact, she added, we also send out some vibe that prompts others to leave us alone to our musings. So true. We've reconnected this past year as her mother (a mom to me growing up, as well) goes toe-to-toe with lung cancer; it's nice to have one of the few people in my life that I've ever been able to, and comfortable with, telling the complete truth--revealing the bare, naked truth of me.

So many paths, so little time to go back and take them all to see where they go!

My favorite kind of conversations.

Danger at Dead End Roads

Image by andy in nyc via FlickrWhen the land bears less than the day

My soul no longer knows the way
To age in one distinguished gray

To live, my life begins with you
It's a lonely street once paved true
Now fraught with two lives of rue

Each day without you leaves
Like childrens' snotty sleeves
Behind innocent shades bereave

But, without you my soul erodes
To artificial love that each time bodes
Mysterious danger at dead end roads

And, patience becomes angst that must
Seek a tangible reminder of trust
That our true love isn't meant to rust

The Butterfly Closes Her Eyes

At a different time
In a different place
Residue that can’t be erased
Weighs on the white wings
That would free her distracted soul

Decisions based on a world
That changed, but never published
New rules of governance
On the thoughts from one night
That one of us can’t remember

Though close enough to touch
Eternally far from understanding
Kettle once whistled with abandon
Engine now idles in emotional silence
Eyes alight on everything but me

Guilty with the right intention
Once denied, always tried,
To a decision of unanimous inaction

The butterfly closes her eyes
And listens to the waves
That crash on her deserted island

Miles on a Soul

She walks away from me, then returns.

Image by juliecampbell via Flickr

In a matter of minutes, with thirty years between them.
Two different looks,
Same deep soul.
One looked to see if I was looking;
A spark on an otherwise chilly day.
The other too young to know better
(Or too wise to care?)
An unwavering stare into my eyes,
That caught me off guard in its simplicity.
“Who are you?” it said.
With my mind, I replied,
“Yes, you know me.”
“Why are you here?”
“Same as you…”
“To watch the world,” our minds said together.
She smiled, then ducked behind the back of her chair.
Mature in her naivety, unhindered by publicity,
Legs tucked up beneath her,
We hide,
And we seek,
Without going anywhere,
In a game that takes us far from here.
Her giggles tell me,
I’m in the right place,
At the right time.
As soon as I realize what she already knows—
My own little kid still alive inside—
Her tongue waggles at me
And her eyes squint closed,
To avoid sight of my equally silly retort.
She wins, we know, but graciously rewards me with
A million pirouettes in a room
Crowded with tables and people
Never nipping a one of them.
Her own perfect dance,
Perfect because she still is a little kid.
“Thank you for the energy,” I think to her
As she waves goodbye with one hand,
The other holding onto her mother.
Still dancing in her mind
Through a doorway
And back into the real world…
For both of us.
The age of the soul
Cares less about the vehicle
And more about the miles traveled.
A lifetime of roads,
Waypoints on a path;
Sometimes the same,
Sometimes different,
We’re lucky when they meet,
If only for a moment in many lifetimes,
Because in an instant we gain measure;
Notice of wrong,
Or confirmation of right.
She walks away, but turns back.
“Keep going,” her eyes say.
“What you write today,
Might help me tomorrow.”
I nod, my thank you a smile that she never saw,
But from experience, knew was there.

Proof of Life

A headache knocked me out this afternoon; too much play between the light and the dark

Image by The U.S. National Archives via Flickr

created a conflagration inside of my skull. I took two, found a spot of sun on the couch, and cradled a Ray Bradbury book in my hands. The off-white pages acted as a reflector, angling the rays of sun that penetrated the wall of glass behind me, streaked over my shoulder, and bounced from the pages of the book into my eyes... deep into my soul.

There's more than one way to skin the dark cat--blind it with light.
(Revved up like a Deuce, another runner in the night)

The warmth of the light felt right. I skimmed the pages with my eyes and let my mind wander off to wonder about other things in my life. Because it wasn't forced to focus on these hurdles in the foreground, it was free to see them objectively, and in objectivity it always gains more perspective.

I love, love. I am always at its beckoned call. And, maybe that isn't the right place for me to be. If I walk away from the line between where you are and where I am, would you eventually cross the line to come looking for me where we're supposed to be?

I put my iPhone on my stomach. An intuition shouted that someone had something to say, though I knew not what it would be. When said, I wanted to be there to listen, not necessarily to respond. While my phone sat there on my stomach, the same sun's rays reflected from it onto the ceiling across the room; some symbol from a ancient language of love that stayed in constant motion, dancing on the white paint. I breathed and it moved back and forth with the rise and fall of my stomach. I held my breath, expecting it to be still with me, but it did not.

It pulsed, like the beat of a bass drum, a rhythm from none other than my heart. I am alive.

My intuition was right. The switchboard operators at The Network are doing their jobs well today. Now, if ony they could interpret the messages for me...

I guess that's my job as a writer, eh?

Things of Me

In a call with my favorite executive recruiter this week, it dawned on me how to easily define my affinity for marketing and writing.

Image by Kristian D. via Flickr

She asked, "What do you want to be right now?" Her explanation stemming from the fact that if you look around at the stuff that's publicly available about me, it sure looks like I really want to be a writer instead of a marketer. My response was simple enough, with no one paying me to be a marketer, I'm spending a lot of time writing.

But, I thought, what makes them so similar?

To me:

• Marketing is a strategy with some composition.
• Writing is composition with some strategy.
  

They are the same ingredients, different recipe, made up of things that I truly love. My ability to find creative, unique ways to operate within the set of rules defined for a project or for a world of fiction that I've created from scratch both feed my soul. Yummy goodness.

Speaking of the book, we are sooooo close. Three more chapters to rewrite and they are tough, tough, emotional ones where I must... oh, wait, I'm not gonna give it away. ;-) I've got a core group of friends that are hammering on the draft--blowing through it actually--and keeping me focused on getting through this project. Y'all are the best.

Keep reading, I love it when I hear from all of you in comments or email or Twitter!

Thank you!