Deep, satisfying, soul-stirring yawps. (See Dead Poets Society. But first brush up on your Whitman.)
I had to put my writing aside for a while to deal with moving into our new home and preparing the condo to rent out. It involved a lot of mind-numbing contractor coordinating, paint picking, errands, and . . . well, you get the point.
It wasn't creative. It wasn't making something new. It wasn't about flexing brain muscles and wrestling words into a shiny, happy flow. It had moments of fun, but not the kind that makes your soul smile.
Now things are settled enough (not completely, but enough) that I CAN WRITE.
Oh, I miss this place, this place where everything is a story and I can't type fast enough to squeeze it all in. I feel like a conduit for wonderfulness. Ideas are hurling themselves at me from all directions, from the community pool to the neighborhood block party. To wit:
Didn't I tell you?
How could I not put this guy in a story? And he hangs out at my neighbor's house a lot, so I'm going to have all kinds of great material.
For anyone who thinks I embellish some of the crazy things I tell you, believe me. Just believe me. I have a combination radar/magnet for wackiness. I don't have time to make anything up when my life is ripe with Pakistani Elvises. (Elvi?)
Just wait until my next post when I reveal the cast of characters I've run into for some future novel that you won't believe. But what did I say? BELIEVE ME.
Also, for all those of you who felt cheated by my wardrobe malfunction non-story, here's the euphemistic Cliff's Notes version, and it's all I'm going to say: Imagine a car with its high beams on whose headlights are seriously out of alignment. You're welcome.