Entry No. 65

The Darkest Sunlight

My home is quiet but for the clicking of keys and occasional clink of my teacup returning to rest on my nightstand. Again, I begin typing, dragging my thoughts back to reality caveman-style, having gently sipped the deep, dark brew of other lands, which I happen to prefer hot – hot like the center of the sun.

Screen Shot 2016-07-19 at 8.51.04 AMAnd this, this is where writing stories is so bittersweet. I expect few to understand. Journeying the deep of an imagination so vivid it’s nearly tangible, then having to leave, come back and write it all down and…. You see, this is why the tea always, always must be hot.

People wonder why writers are often such reclusive creatures. It’s usually on purpose – so we don’t frighten the few who innocently, or bravely, dare try us on a day-to-day basis, away. Not many can relish for long, the intensity of a mind that involuntarily sees a story come alive in anything its gaze happens upon.  Nor once we’ve sailed that vast ocean and truly seen it, grasp the agony of holding an untold story inside of us.

And what, pray-tell with the conversations writers hold daily with people who do not exist, in a time to come from what never was… No, no we don’t talk to ourselves. Rather, we converse regularly with the people we’ve created from nothing. It’s a wonder we’re sane.

And so the tea is searing hot, to remind the senses of what is real between pages, so a reader can someday take a journey and for a moment, forget altogether. Because really, any story that leaves one feeling anything less than an urge to crawl inside a book’s pages and live there, forever, was never a story at all.

Ever stop and wonder how they do it, that thing? Where you find bits of yourself woven in a tale, as if mistakenly left there, by an author you’ve never met?  People don’t realize, but that’s what they’re really saying you know, when they mention a book they “simply cannot put down.” What they mean to convey is, “I’ve read untold parts of my soul.”

Screen Shot 2016-07-19 at 8.49.15 AMFancy often, the inner workings of a writer’s mind; how they navigate that beautifully bright, yet morbid and twisted labyrinth so you can see heaven, taste earth and smell hell all in a chapter from your living room? It’s truly the darkest sunlight.

Pondered much the goings-on, the internal habits of those peculiar ones who smile, say little, are caught studying you; then plunk words on paper in such a way to either make your nerves curl, spirit soar or heart shatter from shock barely a moment later?  Perchance, it’s best left a mystery, a gift for the ones who always question if we’re writing about them and should perhaps behave better.

Alas, I beg you ponder, next instant a writer leaves you breathless, wanting more, you know “it’s two in the morning…just one more chapter.” Consider perhaps we too, didn’t want to come back but did anyway, just for you. Hence we write, to taste life twice. To relive, add a pulse and shock to breathing, the things we see in untold places for the waning imagination of many.

It’s there we’ll hide, in the tangible shadow of the shining story, created from the realest nothing ever known. Then slip away unnoticed but for an occasional curious glance beyond its pages. And just what telling it all was really like, we rarely share with so very few…  Time to sip the tea again.

#writing #oceaninaraindrop #thedarkestsunlight

Entry No. 64

Screen Shot 2016-07-18 at 9.05.10 AM

Stuck in traffic and caught a glimpse of this steeple on the hill. All the cars lined up, passing by. Saw this in my rear-view and couldn’t help but think they should be lined up at our churches, looking for Jesus like this.

Supposedly hindsight’s 20/20…

What are we missing?

#whowillreachthem #traffic #jesus

Entry No. 61

13333007_1610019822648559_4552741423086231588_nI heard a gasp, then hurried footsteps on the floor. My toddler stood before me moments later, tears flowing freely. Her favorite doll I’d sewn had a tear and a nearly severed limb.

She climbed in my lap, wounded play friend in hand. With an odd mix of sorrow and hope in her eyes she looked up at me, “Mommy, {between broken sobs} can you fix her?”

“Hmm, let me see.” She handed me the object of her daydreams, gently pointing to the scars with a tiny finger. “Yes, I believe I can.”

“Mommy, really? {she sucked her breath in sharply with surprise} But how? Her stuffing’s coming out and her arm’s coming off and…” The little voice trailed away and the sudden breath became a heavy sigh as she gazed into those tiny eyes of thread.

It was time to explain. “Well, I remember the day your dolly was born in the workshop. You weren’t there. But there was more to the story, you know.” {had her attention then and the tears subsided}

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