Reflections on my week of writing:
- Time slips through my fingers like water. I struggle to hold onto it, but I can’t.
- Word Count: I’m coming up to the half way point, rounding the corner, looking up at the twisted path to the Dark Moment and trembling in my slippers. Pushing the first draft through is like dragging a jagged rock up a hill side, mottled with sneaky pits of quicksand. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing. But I struggle with the process and uncertainty of it all.
- Social Media: Is the seduction of SM hurting, or helping my writing? Time will tell.
- Research: This week, I learned, “stiletto” is an Italian word for a small metal dagger. (Who knew?)
- Gripe: Using”text” as a verb sucks. It’s necessary for plot but hits the ear like shards of shattered glass. As in: He texted, “I love you.” (Uggh.) or… His text read: “I love you.” (Better, but I don’t like to hang out in the past tense.) I swear, “text” is a noun that the gods, of all that is right in writing, never meant to be mangled into a verb. Couldn’t we change it to something easier on the ear like cybered?
Chester: My muse is a hundred pound, drooling Chesapeake Bay Retriever named Chester. My husband could time the steaks on the barby by the length of his drool which hung down both sides of his mouth. Three inches was about right for a medium rare, Costco tenderloin. He was at peace with his drool. I’m sure he knew it wasn’t his most appealing feature, but he shared it anyways. His favourite spot for rubbing it was on my skirts. He had a thing about dresses.There were many mornings he chased me around the house while I screamed, “Nooo Chester, Nooo…” Chessie drool smells foul. Believe me, once you’re marked by a Chesapeake, the world knows you have a big hound dog in your life. That or a sewer.
So why is Chester my muse? I could tell Chester anything. He was a devoted listener. He made me believe that anything I said was a pearl of wisdom dropping from heaven. His soulful eyes looked at me with a depth of love that touched my soul. I would tell him the secrets of my heart and read him my writing. He listened to it all. It was like he understood me. And no matter what I said or did, he loved me. He saw the family through many of life’s speed bumps, and was like an anchor in our stormy world. What more could I want from a muse?
Chester passed on to doggy heaven last spring, but he will be forever the best dog I ever had – and my muse.
So…my muse drools. What does yours do?