Distracto-piece Theatre

Welcome to a blog in which I continue to avoid working on a fiction project because my brain just starts screaming whenever I consider picking it up. Why? *shrugs* Who knows? I was informed yesterday by a younger family member that I was no longer allowed to blame anything on the pandemic...so let's just say my writing schedule has been thrown off by rain, heat, and the general desire of my brain to go on periodic screaming jags.

Change of seasons are always tricky for me--what I want to work on varies with my ability to enjoy reading and writing outside and whether we're trying to cram activities into less-hot parts of the day and so I've been feeling the pull of different projects to begin with. Then the rains came. I have a dog who gets shaking and trembling nervous when the thunder begins. We're not in a flood zone but he also objects to going outside when it's wet. So he's under the desk right now, panting. And my brain is taking a deeeeeeeeep breath.

What I need is a good, physical book on writing the fantastic so I can be "on task" and curled up with the dog.

And that's the distraction for the day! Not as productive as laundry but more pup-friendly.

-- Chrissa

Comments

Turn Away

Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm. Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story. Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...

The Soul and The Spine

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low, eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...

A Single (Terrible) Poem

I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies. This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem? -- Chrissa

A Weed on The Curb

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