Late to the Blog

And i wish I had something vitally entertaining to share.

Hmmm. I am reading a good Rita comp. book, but I can't really share that title.

I'm also writing like crazy. I'm at the stage of the book where I'm both editing and writing new stuff and shaping and hoping I'm catching up all the loose ends. (I'm seeing a ball of clay in my head as I type this.)

It is sort of like clay. The story was a bundle of ideas that I put into a synopsis which doesn't greatly resemble the story that's building out of it. But I think the actual story is better. It's a good sign that I care so much about these characters. There are moments when they really get to me. I feel as if I'm visiting in their world.

I remember once, my son was grounded. Whatever he'd done was so upsetting he wasn't even allowed to play his guitar. After a few days, he showed up in front of me, a semi-mad look I recognized on his face. The wanderer in the desert, who keeps bumping into the mirage--that then fades.

"Mom," he said, "I'll take being grounded. You can add on time. But please, won't you guys let me play my guitar? I can't stand not playing."

I knew that desperation so well. If someone took away the instruments I use to write, I'd be looking like my boy. But just as he practices pretty constantly, I have to write every day. The thing is, he makes his music sound effortless. It flows from his guitar or mandolin or banjo (I love the mandolin best), but I'm not feeling sanguine that my writing is achieving that flow just now.

Gotta go smack some metaphorical clay around. I refuse to let it slap me senseless first!