Trading in my Parking Spot for my Future (some call it Retirement)

Trading in my Parking Spot

Some months ago I arrived one day at work and found this bicycle hitched to my parking spot.

Ah, I thought, perfect for my goodbye. Oh, don't get me wrong. I have absolutely no inclination to trade in my 4 wheels for something with no protection going down hills. But somehow this bicycle sent me images of a wicker basket filled with flowers, a baguette, a bottle of wine. A winding country lane even maybe.

This bicycle spoke to me about my future.

It filled me with a sense of awe. It reminded me of how the years have flown by, how certain things have broken down, how some scenery has been fantastic and of the surprising potholes that have shown up. 

You know, those deep ruts that make you lean and hold on to the handlebars tightly. The ones that form (it seems) almost overnight. The bad habits along with the better ones. The unexpected turns in your career, in your health, the dead halt in your ambition as you take care of the necessities. How you kiss your creativity farewell and put it in your back pocket hoping that it will stay put safely...until later. (Tweet This)

Sweet Writing at the Right Moment

They say the longer you postpone something, the harder it is to get going. True, no? Think of it. Cleaning your house, shopping for an occasion, writing? See what I did there? Snuck in my personal issue where you least expected it. If you are a writer you’ll know what I mean, we’re both sneaky that way.

I wonder why I just didn’t get out of bed when the flow of words formed into a lovely rhyming poem one night this past week. Why I didn’t carry my small sized fits-into-a-pocket notebook and jot down some brilliant thoughts while I travelled on the bus. Why the sweet lullaby moment during the commercial celebrating family which came on during dinner time didn’t get scribbled on my paper napkin?

Why? Why? Why?

Have my flying thoughts gone out my window and into the house next door? Is that why I see my neighbour tapping away furiously on his laptop, while I stare at the shadows on my wall. Watch them take shape. While I shift ever so slightly to see if I have the power to make that odd twinkling alien light move like a crazy comet. 

Sweet Writing at the Right Moment

That man, head bowed surely doesn’t have my affliction. I see his light on at the same odd hours I walk around in the dark of my house. Afraid to turn on the light and bear witness to my lack of words. How long can I hide in this place?

So I walk, as the twilight descends, the breeze cools, even the dog’s barking seems melancholy. Do dogs get sad at their lack of accomplishment on any particular day? Don’t worry says my Muse, I am here, waiting. Waiting for WHAT? I yell back angrily. But he chuckles at me, plays me for the fool that I am. And he doesn’t answer. For the right moment, or maybe he meant for the write moment. That's what my heart answers back.

I am curious, I am mystified, I am eating way too much sugar. Where have my words gone? Such a terrible time of year for those of us who just cannot resist chocolate in any form. And that is another reason why I walk. It is not to shed pounds, it is to put some distance between me and the plates of goodies that keep arriving at my door.

Someone told me once that when they were struggling with cookie temptation, that they wrapped the sweet trays with tin foil and packing tape and took them directly to the garbage can. She went through a lot of tape that year, she said. And only once did she set the adjacent neighbours' light sensors off at midnight while she stood in the back alley and sliced open a package with kitchen sheers. The neighbourhood dogs barked loudly too.

I, of course, would never do that! I have finished my walk and still, all I think of is sweets. All I'm doing is peering at my neighbour typing away on his laptop. Horrible man, there is probably not a single cookie crumb to be seen on his desk.

Then I hear my Muse saying STOP. Sit still and write this down. Because just like eating chocolate, writing is a good habit for you too.

Sweet writing just takes the right moment. (Tweet This)

Eating chocolate and writing are both good habits. (Tweet This)

Thoughts About Words, Words About Thoughts - mini #NaNoWriMo

Intro: It's that time again when writers of all flavours pick up their tool of choice and get writing. I am not able to commit this year but thought I would try something different. NaNoWriMo will happen for me in May, or June, or July. If you continue to follow along you'll find out why.

Anyone who follows me here (thank you for your private messages that basically told me to get off my a**) knows that I have been missing. Missing the opportunity, coming up with excuses and sorely lacking in words.

But this has ended.

With the month of #NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) upon us, even those faint of heart are excited and at least cheering fans of those who will be MIA for the next 30 days.

My mini NaNoWriMo will be about writing. Thoughts about words, words about thoughts that flit through each of our minds. Sometimes when we least expect it. Sometimes pounding us down as we reach for a spare paper napkin on the adjoining table at a restaurant (because ours was spotted with smudges of garlic toast and spaghetti sauce).

When I started writing my blog, I had planned to pen just a few inspiring words that would reach you. Then somehow, I got caught up with SEOs, which kind of social media gave 

Poem in Life Lines

Poem in Life Lines - Glenmore Reservoir

I rather write a poem where each word is chosen for impact

where the sounds of the clip of time are embedded

moving a reader along into my world and out of theirs.

Quickly brutally sharply.

I want to create a space where when they are gone

they choose to come back and linger and savour

the letters I have strung together.

Without dragging a book on the train a plane

and finally into their bed.

I dream of them

repeating my words,

the ones that touched them

caressed them

made them ponder.

Why they let that lover go.

How they crossed the waters felt wind on their dry lips.

Cried tears on the ferry

and went inside.

Touching where the slap was so hard.

I might write a book one day, a short one.

One which will not leave a reader

feeling mystified betrayed confused

because the character they had grown to know

during their 300 odd page journey together

was lying to them throughout.

No, give me a poem

to write.

Where it is black or white

with not enough room for excuses.

Because in only so few lines

there is little chance

to hurt

but enough time

to heal.

Does a poem not tell a story? (Tweet This)

Character Demise

It makes me sad to know and to tell you that the main character in my next story will be killed off.

We started off quite nicely when we first met, but then our relationship started to suffer. He just did not behave in a way that I expected, all these mysterious stories from his past kept cropping up and surprising me. I mean, really?

How could anyone have so many excuses to be a jerk, hadn’t he learned anything? He was pleasant looking, and fit and had his own cook books which he used regularly, as any good man should be able to do. But it wasn't enough to keep him around.

The past kept infringing. Strange phone calls from people named Swank and Bullet? I didn’t need this crap.

All I wanted was a simple, straightforward man in my story. Not someone that seemed to be hiding things from me. And then he had the nerve to say that I was boring, and had no imagination, and shouldn’t assume that what was presented was in fact the way it was.

Character Demise

Hey, I believe in dialogue as do all writers, but this was ridiculous. Taking flack from my character?

I believe that I've had enough.
When I was younger, I would have destroyed him into a crumpled piece of paper.

Yesterday, I could have just backspaced him out of my life.

There are so many ways to do it. Today, I think I'll just have to kill him.


What do you do when your character shocks you? (Click to Tweet)

Do you get along with your characters? (Click to Tweet)

My Character and what's missing

If you’re not a writer, you might assume that I was about to share how truly failed or dreadful I can be. Please don’t be disappointed now when I tell you that my character is in a short story I’m working on.

My character is a mystery to me. He is greying and fit, he stands by the beach and waits. I know his name, but I won’t spoil it for you as I do plan to finish this piece at some point. He smiles but he continues to be just out of reach for me.

My Character

Perhaps, I don’t know anyone quite like him and that is why he eludes me, he is shy about sharing his thoughts. He knows about wine though, and I see him swirl his current favourite malbec on a Friday night. His shirt has softened at the elbows and frayed on the collar and he’s been known to skip a stone while the sun sets. Then he’ll pick up his wine glass from the sand and walk back up to the screen door.

We don’t get enough time together, he and I. It's scary, because I think that he knows me better than I know him. We have to stop our day and sit quietly, each of us with our malbec, watching the clouds disappear to the west.

We've met at coffee shops and poured over our similarities. Had a few laughs over a brownie or two (I blame it on him), wine on a Friday night has shattered some beliefs we each have, once we get going. We even went on a weekend retreat once, no hanky-panky just straight up word work.

Notes in his handwriting keep showing up on my bedside table, on my kitchen counter and in my car, they all say the same thing. I’ve always gotten away with it and this time will be no different.

His presence is consuming me. He flits in and out of my mind like a new lover and we both know that what we need is time. One day soon, his eyes will not reflect me and I will not be reduced by the scent of outdoors on his skin.

That is the day I will find out why his wife disappeared and then write the next appropriate sentence.