Forever Young: 10/31/12

Blog Manifesto

This blog is dedicated, as the title would suggest, to the qualities of being young. We are young writers. We are playful and sensitive, fluid and changing. We are unashamed with our art. We wonder at the world, puzzle over the meanings of things and twirl in delight at images and ideas that float by, grabbing at them as they pass. We are curious and constantly inquiring and prying concepts open and taking assumptions apart. We are on the ground, close to the earth. We have bare feet and wiggle our toes into nature. We carry our blankies still and wrap up cozy and comfy with each other and tell ghost stories and shiver at creepy things. We laugh and we cry and we take a lot of naps, drained from our outings and exertions.

We write as gifts to each other, tying them up in ribbon and leaving them around for each other to find, hiding and waiting for the person to wake up and read. Surprise! We weave our stories together to create a bond. One writes, then the other. then another again. We have a shared reality that we have crafted, bit by piece by patch, by string. We write simple, honest authentic things, with our unique voices. You can tell each one of us from the other, without knowing who wrote what. Our voices are clear and gentle and original. We whisper and our personalities roar! Like children, our feelings are strong, our passion for what we write shakes us. We are moved and sometimes left breathless, by our own words or the words of each other. We cannonball into each others spaces. We fall backward into each others writing, like into a pile of leaves or a soft bed. We gobble and grin and ask for more. (footnote kudos to JC)

Then we go to bed, wake up to a new day and do it all over again!

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

And so it begins for me at the stroke of Midnite

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/dashboard

I purpose to write 50,000 words of an original novel by the end of NaNoWriMo

The glow from the computer screen lit up his face as he sat quietly clicking. A few minutes earlier he had been puttering around the kitchen, wiping up a spill here, stashing away a dish. He had a slow slithery manner, almost a dumb witted slowness, that covered a gentle heart. It made her crazy, his slow gentle ways, his gentle kind heart. His healing love that she was so careful to never to scratch at or bump rubbed at her, constrained her.

"Thanks you for being patient with me" he said. She blocked the urge to roll her eyes and snort. She forced herself to wait out the irritation and formed a loving response.

Patient? Patient?! have you any idea how much passion I muffle up and push down, to match your gentleness/ Words she didn't tell him. more muffled down words.

but in her writing, she planned on soaring. She would be angry and evil and dis considerate on the page. Loud and lusty.

It was just a matter of sitting down and slicing open her neck and letting the words flow out.

It is a pig stick. Just pierce a vein and let the bile flow out.

She wrote and wrote. And wrote some more. And in the writing she exposed herself. She came into focus. For a short glorious time there was clarity.