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When Life is More tempting than writing


Photo Credit: Tree Image (vladstudio, http://www.vladstudio.com/home/)

This weekend was a whirlwind of fun.  Long overdue, but never too late in its arrival.  I finally caught up with some really good friends, gathering to meet up with them in New York and having such an amazing time.  Where does the time go?  And I don’t mean the days, I’m talking the years that seem to fly by, unnoticed and inconspicuously. 

Lately, I’ve taken a huge break from writing.  But not entirely so.  There are periodic breaks and often times, I find myself writing down on a scrap piece of paper random thoughts and sentences that float through my mind, usually the dominant mood dictating the sentence I write.  That’s it.  Just a sentence that means nothing to anyone.  It’s a thread that’s part of a larger theme of thought.  Anyone reading it can make of it what they will.  But they will have to find it first, because I usually tear these notes to shreds before there’s any chance of them being discovered.  It’s a diary of thought. One slip of note betraying my feelings in that instant.  I need to write it because it’s a spiritual and mental purging.  Writing has always been this for me.  So even though I haven’t been officially engaged in any writing that is soon to turn Manuscript, I’ve been keeping those words juggling in my head.  Flexing and muscling them into coherent ideas.  And that party I went to this weekend?  Well, it will serve its purpose in the long run.  Someday, something in there will make it into one of my story lines. 

Similar to when I completed the video book trailer.  I had taken hundreds of pictures through the years, many were nominated, but only few made it to the stage to be given the Oscar at the Podium.  All these memories I make with my friends will go into the Chamber of memories, few will be nominated for storylines, fewer will get hired to make it into the final cut. 

Meanwhile, for those of you living in the Northeast, this summer has been incredibly humid, and yet so tortuously dry:  we went through a prolonged period of no rain that resulted in everything turning yellow.  Just nature’s way of reminding us why rain is so important.  But I haven’t been pushed to the brink of complaint.  We earn our summers here in CT, as the winters can be a little too unforgiving at times.  And it’s taken its toll on my ability to sit still in the heat, focus and commit myself to a lateral, surreal world that runs parallel yet in-congruent to this one.  I’m still reading though.  Right now I’m revisiting two classics; The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger on my morning commute and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, in the evening at home.  The Catcher in the Rye makes an immediate impression, whereas Jane Eyre has a delayed effect, but no less powering in its reach to my subconsciousness.  Jane Eyre evokes outrage from me in so many ways.  I’m revisiting this storyline as an adult to see what I get out of it now that I’m no longer twelve years old, and if the lessons or stories portrayed in the novel make a different impact.

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