Writing here as led to an urge to write. I used to write short stories. I submitted a few here and there, but never had anything published. Which I know is just how it is. The old pulp mags which gave so many authors a start in the past, well, they're dead. The mags and the authors (for the most part). There aren't many publishing options for short stories, and about zero for new authors. So I didn't take the rejections personally. Well, not too much.
Until I got that one really snotty "this is a literary publication and you're clearly NOKD" rejection. It made me so mad. That condescending dismissal -- without a reason why my little story didn't qualify as literature by their standards. But I never submitted anything for publication after that.
I kept writing, tho.
And slowly I just . . . stopped. The ideas, ok really the voices, were still there in my head. Are still there. I just stopped letting them out.
But writing here, forming sentences and artfully skewing grammar and punctuation, makes me want to let the stories out again. Which is, of course, exactly what Mr. M, my high school writing teacher, always said. Write every day. Just write something, anything, but write every day. And he was a good teacher and I should have taken his lessons to heart more. Well done, Mr. M.
So this is my excuse for the days without a post. I was actually going to post this yesterday, but I spent my breaks working on a short story. Stay tuned . . .
I was also going to post about how lovely it was yesterday. Really. The temperature fell from a very hot 92F to a pleasant 80F, which doesn't seem that big a deal, but the humidity also dropped from 97% to 42%. So you don't get sweaty from just sitting still and breathing.
I rolled down the window as soon as I turned off the interstate. There was a touch of fairy magic going to the corkscrew road (25 mph, which seems too fast when you're doing it) to the train trestle and creek. All of the leafy trees overhanging the road created a quiet bower -- and made it feel five degrees cooler.
Then the alpacas breakfasting by their far back fence all turned to watch me when I waved hello. (They played coy on my way back in the evening, staying put and absolutely not looking at the road -- except one who is obviously the friend who openly stares when you say "don't look" -- even tho they were much closer to the front fence.)
And I slept with my bedroom window open to let in the 60F night breeze.
That was yesterday. And I wish I had posted all of that yesterday. Because today is . . .
I don't know how to explain. Nothing is different: same lovely weather, same slightly unreal strip of road that almost seems like a corridor from this world back to this world but passing through another place, same gorgeous fuzzy-faced alpacas.
But I'm different. More accurately, my brain chemistry is different. I can recognize signs. Hopefully it won't be too bad. Or last too long. I can't post about it today, tho. I ran through what I would post, when I do, during the morning drive, and just that little thing helped me regain just a smidgeon of control.
I don't remember Mr. M. ever telling me to enjoy the good moment -- the peaceful, the mild, the fae moments -- when you have them because just like that <finger snap> they are gone. But it seems (35 years later) like one of those super obvious basic truths he would have tried to teach me if only I would listen.
p.s. I just posted this, like two seconds ago, and suddenly thought "ohemgee 'I'm late' is a terrible title." I'm not late, like late. (Hysterectomy, 2008.) And I'm not late, like the White Rabbit. I just meant I'm late in posting about the totally typical day that was laced with unexpected loveliness, but at least I turned my face to loveliness and let it caress my skin while I had it. While I had the loveliness, not while I had skin. This postscript probably ruined the vibe. Sorry.
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