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Confessions of a Bugatti Veyron

Let me begin today’s blog with a spicy metaphor.  One that’s delectably fast and furious.  My most newly favored… the Bugatti Veyron: engineered to reach flagship performance in a single bound of fluid flowing mass of compounding acceleration.  No, this is not a car commercial.  This is the Debra Hutchens’ blog still.  But isn’t she beautiful?  Dipped like an ice cream cone in a molten flavor of cherry coated lava.  There’s an inveterate sense of power and thrust when something can appear this sumptuous, this deliriously fast, pounding forward at a mind boggling speed while still immobile.  It flags a ticket just sitting there!  Your driver’s license will notch points just having one of these parked in your driveway.  Don’t let it get to your head my dear Veyron.  You’re vain enough as it is.  You ruin every party we go to and steal all the attention.  Guys and girls alike.  If I were to stand next to you, I’m quite sure no one would take notice of me.

Allow me make one thing sufficiently clear:  in no way am I comparing myself to a Bugatti Veyron, but we do (you and me dear reader), have one thing in common with it.  We both run off the vital juice of energy.  Without a generous bleed of it, it’s a long way to the finishing line.  For the Bugatti, that would be the sweet cocktail of gasoline.  The black and white checkered flag waving enticingly in the far off distance beckons to be reached, but there you are, sputtering behind in your aim to cover that last stretch.  Okay, so my husband knows a little, or maybe even a lot about cars (let’s give credit where credit is due) and I picked his knowledge to drive the metaphoric point home on my writing.  He also knows a lot about aircraft, and one day soon, you may see me here delivering another metaphor on the F-22 Raptor.   

Back to my point.  With no fuel loaded in the gas tank, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.  And I’m nowhere near a Veyron.  I don’t look like it; I don’t move like it, I don’t even have the mental circuitry to ‘think’ like it.  But here’s where the metaphor comes in; during the day, I feel the pistons firing off sporadically in my brain.  This occurs, of course, when I’m at work and daydreaming -when what I should be doing is focusing on the task at hand.  And boy is my job one boring stiff task.   I’m forced to think within a wire-mesh framework of structure and statute.  It causes atrophy of the brain cells.  I told someone today that my mind is like a child running loose in the park and all conscious reasoning (the guardian adult) runs after it to pull it back in, like a kite flying high and mighty in the battering wind.  Or worst, like a bronco bucking wild beneath the strike of lightning, fighting the tightening and strenuous rope of its rider.   But once nightfall hits and I have all the time in the world to indulge in the fantasy realm of my own fiction, it all deserts me. 

I kind of just peter out.  So the only thing left for me to do is to work off the template of what’s already been written, and I’m left to work on some editing.  But even then I find myself feeling dizzy with sleep after a long day’s work.  You know what it’s like.  I write pretty lousy at this hour and I’m not one of those people who can go full-throttle after a long day, then find myself with a neat and completed manuscript five months later ready to go for press.  Maybe others can do this.  Me.  Not so.  For me, it’s a painstaking process consisting of a lot of do-overs and “let’s just pretend that didn’t happen”.  Just the other day, I was going through one of the chapters of my manuscript; now this is a chapter I’ve written over so many times already, and still, I found some things that left me feeling pretty dissatisfied.  I might need to just stare out the window and let my mind unwind.  Come to think of it, maybe that’s not so bad, and perhaps it’s just what I need to fuel me for a stronger tomorrow.  Good night and hope to see you later in the week.

Anime girl sitting in window alcove gazing and moon and stars

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