Writing On My Mind

We walked the carnival last night, my hubby, kids, sister-in-law and me. Voices carried from rides and booths, lights were colored and beautiful. As we reached the edge of the park, I asked my husband to snap a picture of the imposing and stories-tall ferris wheel. "I can use the photo for a post. Tie it into writing, with some kind of analogy."

"We're at the state fair, and you're thinking about writing?" my sister-in-law asked, surprised. And I could see her point, given we were surrounded by farm animals, live bands, jumbo corn dogs, company displays and advertisements, balloon hats, face-painting, funnel cakes, kid crafts, art contests, a circus and various shows and performances.

"Absolutely," I answered. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about writing today."

That's true far more often than it's not, because writing is a mindset and a love. It's an existence for me. As a writer, I am the writing.

It's thought over what I'll write next, what I'll share here on Something She Wrote, what would work for an article or flash fiction piece. It's the people-watching, character-building, wondering if so-and-so over there feels their path as strongly as I feel mine. It's idle talk about jobs and passions, realizing mine and who I want to be. It has to do with how I present myself, and how I perceive myself, how prepared I'll be down the line. About my dreams, my talents, my blessings and my hopes. Keeping my eyes and ears open to opportunity and potential, knowing every little observance and nuance and experience shapes my craft. You know?

So yeah, I was at the state fair, thinking about writing. It's a cycle. A ride, with ups and downs, elations and concerns. And just like the ferris wheel turns its circle, its cars returning to the same place again and again, my thoughts return to this writing I do.

How heavily do thoughts of writing weigh on your mind?

Peace, and Then It's Gone

Last night my family left. And I washed dishes.

It had been weeks, months, since I'd handwashed a dish, save an errant pot. It had been hours, days, since I'd had any time to myself. So I shooed them to the pool and eyed the sinkful of cups and plates and odd things, the ones that hadn't fit in the dishwasher's last load.

Silence--finally--fell over the house.

At the sink, I lost myself in the blue of the Dawn, the slip of the bubbles. I focused on the pull of my hamstrings as they stretched to lock my knees, felt the cold metal hardware as I leaned my forehead into the cabinet. My fingers swam the warm water, not quite as hot as I like it to be.

I'd forgotten how peaceful and relaxing washing dishes could be. I was reminded how important--no, dire--quiet is for this thinker, writer, woman.

I hummed a song. I plotted dinner. I heard my thoughts.

I summoned the main character from my WIP, whom I hadn't seen in at least a week. She stood next to me at the sink; we chatted just a bit. But before I could beg her to stay the evening, my family returned and she made a graceful exit.

The dishes were done.

The peace, gone until next time.