Deviant Dispatches

Every day, the sun sets. Right now, I can think of a dozen poems and a dozen poets right for the occasion. But I have no words of my own. It's one of those times when I'm glad for other writers in the world - people who've been there before me, to give voice to feelings I can't articulate. Their efforts are a soothing balm in difficult times, though they can't heal on their own. I could go on. I could consider the cyclical nature of life, delve into memory, pound out words with a soft fury that I don't understand. But the most peaceful thing right now is in knowing that the sun will set today, just like it has for millennia past. Not everything has changed. But enough has. *** I wrote the above a week ago, the day my grandma passed away. In some ways, it's still unreal. In others, I'm both relieved for her and devastated for everyone who loved her. Since then, I've been to her visitation and funeral and seen first hand all the lives she...

Today, it is beautiful out. The sun shines on the side of the building, and I can imagine the warmth of the brick. I imagine from my desk the feel of heat radiating outward, warming my perpetually cold hands. I imagine sitting in my new house a week from now, with that same sun shining on me in the tea room as I curl up in a blanket, surrounded  by boxes. I imagine the bitter wind that comes wrapped in spring sunshine, a package deal. Its bite surprises, vicious in the face of such warmth. After the cold of months past, it is bare by comparison, but I keep my winter coat handy for a few more days. How is it possible, this comfort and this chill that makes me curl up on myself? How do they coexist so readily, so constantly, so wordlessly? I try to envision that balance in myself, to embody yin and yang. It must be there already, because what can exist without both? But I've turned a blind eye to evidence in the past. I've been known to ignore fact and contemplate my own fi...

Over the weekend, I completed a whirlwind of important tasks. I visited my grandparents. I packed. I baked. I worried. I drank and spilled lots of tea and coffee. I drank lots of something that was not tea with my immediate family and cousins I've not seen in far too long. Important things, I tell you. I also got to see both of my nephews, which really shows the difference two months can make at a young age. Wee Axel Mr. Wyatt (Photo by Brooke) And I wrote. I'm now on page 133. I'll overshoot page 140 easily by end of the month, presuming I don't have to spend a crazy amount of time on the packing, which is going well. Tonight will feature vegetarian reubens, some angry saints , and pizza crust made in anticipation of moving day. Today is okay. Tomorrow will be okay too.

Moving is a complex, stupid animal. There are a billion things to stress over and twice as many people to complicate things and get in your way. Throw in first-time home ownership, and it makes my usual level of worry seem like wondering what to have for lunch: inconsequential and minute. (Minute is my new favorite word lately, I think. Sorry. Or not sorry. Too busy worrying to parse it out.) In these times, destitute of peace of mind, I find two things helpful: writing and thinking about the positives. This at least temporarily gets my mind off the stress and helps me remember why I'm putting myself through such a terror-inducing process in the first place. In the new house, I won't have to worry about whether the landlord is going to charge us for replacing the carpet that the cats have demolished. I'll just have to either live with it or replace it myself, which means no reliance on someone else's fickle policies. (Thankfully, there's little carpet in the n...

The less I write, the less I write. The last month or so marks the least consistent streak of writing since I began this blog, back in New Mexico. It's a disturbing trend, and one I'd rather discontinue; not only have I been inattentive here, I've distanced myself from the novel a bit too much. This means that rather than being almost done with Draft 5 and ready to start emailing publishers in desperation, I'm instead on page 119 of 321, barely a third through and giving my own writing mind a vicious, critical stink eye. To be fair, I have done some tough work, and the first half is what most needs improving. I've cut down several thousand words and the ones that are already in place flow with much better prose, if not more poetically. Things are happening. But I know I can do better, and so I'm going to. The new goal is to get to page 140 by the end of the month. That's 21 pages - a horrifically easy pace compared to what I've been doing, but a st...