I like writing love stories. I realized this while fretting over which idea to pursue for NaNo. The previous idea didn’t churn on that precious, ethereal fuel, and without it, I was bust. Not that all my books run on love stories, but for some, it’s the guiding light. And without those small beams to show the way, I’m lost.
Now that I’ve sorted one detail, the rest is falling into place, which affirms I made the correct decision. Bouncing ideas off a lovely friend yesterday was another sign in the right direction. Always great to spend lunchtime with another writer; we fed our bodies with soul food, enriched our hearts and minds with an equally satisfying amount of Doctor Who, sport, writing. I came home full of mac ‘n cheese and cornbread, also the wondrous sense that whatever this authoring gig is about, I’m not alone. Writing might seem like a solitary occupation, but that isn’t my way.
At a certain point in life, we are what we choose to be. Always evolving, but ultimately, I don’t run my kids’ lives, my parents don’t run mine. Agents and publishers don’t rule, or rock, my world. Taking the advice of my insightful eldest child, I tapped into NaNoWriMo, and was never the same, part of me. I still adore my husband, children, sport. But I was transformed six years ago; I wrote and wrote, and the rest sits in books and musings. Sometimes I wonder how, why. It’s inevitable, the human mind constantly seeking answers. But with age I’ve cut back on those queries. This is what I am, what I have. I don’t interrogate the sunrise, which this morning emerged in neon pink-orange clouds stark against a deep blue sky. I tried to snap pictures, it was hopeless; the flash eradicated the colours, fading with every passing second. As the sun stole depth from those clouds, I shut off the camera, not asking why I couldn’t capture that snap, just taking it in.
Then writing it down, for this is what I do, no if’s, and’s, or but’s.