The Writer Within Me

This morning I read two chapters of The Hawk.  While no time looms to manage any writing, reading isn’t difficult, other than reminding me how much I’d like to be writing.  I’d *LOVE* to be furthering this novel down the path, but at the moment, I barely have enough cognitive strength to type this blog entry.  I’m tired, mentally and a little physically too.  Right now, life is somewhat on the draining side.

But the writer inside me doesn’t seem to notice my outward fatigue.  The writer crosses her arms, taps her foot, and glowers.  Well, maybe she’s not glowering, but disappointment colours her entire mood: Why aren’t you writing, you nitwit?  You’re not that tired, I mean, you’re penning this ridiculous post and…

And enough already!  I’m pooped, maybe the last few road trips have caught up with me.  Road trips, quilts, novels, although I haven’t completed a first draft in a while.  I won’t hazard a guess as to when The Hawk will be in the can, too precarious an idea.  I do feel it *will* (at some point or other) be finished.  Yes, I will state that.  One day I will write The End to The Hawk.  But please don’t ask me when that day will be.

(If you asked my inner writer, she’d definitely glower and say, “Like tomorrow, okay?”)

What the inner writer doesn’t realize, bless her, is that while perhaps she’s ageless, I am not.  Today I’m feeling every single one of my forty-eight years, perhaps a few extra having snuck in when I wasn’t looking.  In reading over a couple of chapters, I was pleased for how well the prose flowed, occasionally wondering, as I sometimes do, did I actually write all that?  But it’s still the relative beginning of the book, and I’ve read and re-read those scenes more than a few times, the revisions apparent.  Maybe that is why my inner writer is heady with authorial excitement; she wants to expand on all those polished paragraphs.

(While the writer who does the actual work hedges, fully aware of how middling to lousy the ensuing chapters are at the end…)

Still, it’s encouraging to want to write; now if only I had the time!  Visiting with Dad this past weekend, however, reminds me that sometimes time needs to be made for itself.  Which is my roundabout way of telling my inner writer to be patient, while I recover from a road trip all the while preparing for another.  I’ll be away this weekend too, which will keep me from writing, and quilting.  Usually I don’t get too far from home, and when I do, it’s more of a one-off than the norm.  But 2014 is shaping up to be a year unlike any other, which means damn the torpedoes (and my increasing age), full speed ahead!  Quilts and books be darned, as the open road calls my name, but please let me take a moment to slip into my trainers.  If I drive with Birkenstocks on, my ankles get sore.

This probably makes my inner writer wring her hands as well; “Get on with it!” I’m sure she’s screaming.  Or as Dad would say, “Git ‘er done!”  I’d love to get her done when it comes to The Hawk, but I’m too far into it to just pick it up, scribble a few words, then set it down.  I need a stretch of uninterrupted days to write, which I am not going to get anytime soon.  And I’m also far enough into this book, as well as my writing career (for what that’s worth) not to compromise the story.  Reading over the initial chapters has shown me that yes, it’s a pretty damned fine book (if I might say so myself).  No way in the world do I want to throw it to the winds just to please one whiny inner writer.

Sort of how my daughter had to corral Buttercup this past weekend; she’d had the run of the beach, but my girl got sick and tired of chasing her, so out came the lead, followed by the saddest beagle/basset eyes this side of the Mississippi.  Buttercup looks a lot like my inner writer, two spoiled gals who are used to doing as they please.  But my inner muse needs to cool her jets; I’m not the same writer I was years ago.  I’m not the same woman either, what with quilting in the mix, or my dad who isn’t the same man he used to be.  We’re all changing, and best that we accept these alterations as gracefully as possible.  Getting one’s knickers in a twist is a waste of time, energy, and well, knickers.  I’ll write more of The Hawk when I am darned good and ready to.  And in the meantime, playoff baseball awaits.  Please Giants, don’t lose your NLCS home opener….

2 thoughts on “The Writer Within Me

  1. laura bruno lilly

    I hope you get to snuggle in the quilt you made for you, cuddle with your hubby and watch your Giants win another game tonight…sometimes that helps us along the harder stretches of life.


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