The Writing Process

I write daily. Sometimes it's answering emails,contributing to an online community forum,and sometimes it's writing in my journal. When I'm on a roll it's all of the above. It's like physical exercise: the more you do it,the faster and better you get.

I need to be mindful of my hands,to take frequent breaks so my hands don't throb from arthritis and carpal tunnel. Yoga releases the tension in my hands,neck and shoulders.

When I'm working on my novel,I may stay focused for 4 or 5 hours; the time zips by as I'm absorbed in my work.

Meanwhile,the laundry and the dishes pile up. Clumps of fluffy black cat hair dot the carpet in the computer room,gifts from Jasmine,who sheds so much I joke about collecting the fur and making a sweater.

Jasmine and her partner in catnip,Oreo,are my writing companions. Sometimes one of them will leap into my lap as I click away on the computer. Other times they curl up on shelves or on the braided carpet,silent witnesses.

To keep moving forward,I need to camraderie and support of writing groups,both on-going and drop-in. I love the sheer joy of writing and then sharing our words on the page.

Write on!

A Postcard

Dear Marian,
Buenos Aires reminds me of Depot Bay--the seafood restaurants, the fishing fleet, the sidewalks filled with vendors.

We have much to talk about.

This morning, the salt spray woke me up from my dream about you. I was riding you like a seahorse. You were galloping me around the ocean floor.

Do you miss me? Do you remember the day I left you?

It was two Tuesdays ago, and you were sitting at your desk, paying bills. We were done with fighting by then, I think. You had already crumbled my heart like a stale cookie. I think the moment you stopped listening to me was the afternoon before, when Carla called you, when Carla betrayed me.

I can hardly breathe in Buenos Aires, air perfumed with cigarette smoke and anorexic Argentinian women. I like my women like you, Marian, solidly placed on the ground, unafraid of food.

My uncle sends his greetings, asks me why you are not travelling with me. He thinks a wife and husband should be together. I tell him you hae a visa problem. I hope it will make him dislike you, but it only seems to intrigue him more.

Damn you, you are an intriguing woman, but your intrigue has destroyed me. I do not wish my best to you. I wish us to share the misery equally, as we have done with everything else.

Tomas

I Did Not Start That Fire

I did not start that fire, but I roasted marshmallows in its sunny flames. I didn't start the rumor, but I enjoyed telling it to others. I didn't lie, but I didn't offer you the truth. I didn't start the endeavor, and I'm not going to stop it either.

I did not start that fire, but I'll push you in and say you tripped. You are famously clumsy, everyone will believe me.

I did not start that fire. Wait, maybe I did--just so I could rush in and save you. I've always wanted to be a hero, even if it was only for 10 seconds on the local evening news.

I did not start that fire, but I'll mischievously fan its flames. I like chaos. I like to see men panic, all their fake bravado draining away fast like the blood flows from a big boar hung up on a hook after the slaughter. Oh, I like fires. They say they are necessary, cleansing, very healthy.

Everyone is very scared of flames, of snakes, of evil sneaking up on them, unaware, while they are scrubbing the sink. That's a funny image, thinking you have won the war on entropy when the fire--my fire--gets you by surprise.