I am feeling stirrings of words in my mind. Stories are in there, reaching up like tiny plant roots taking hold in the dark of the earth, winding their way to the surface and the light of the sun.
Yeah. Poetic. That’s nice. I am trying to get at the feeling, and it’s not quite a poetic feeling, really. It’s something different—almost that poetry but not really.
It is August. August is my favorite month. It has always meant back to school, school supplies and new clothes, books and pencils and the promise of a new beginning. August is all of that, but now it is coupled with that bittersweet tang, that feeling you get when you read a perfect line or see a perfect picture and suddenly find your heart wrapped in an ache, being squeezed, a pain almost a pleasure, homesickness for a place you’ve never been. That’s what August is now, because school is behind me. Even teaching in the public schools is behind me. So I am longing for that back-to-school new beginning, but I am without a classroom.
And wrapped up in all of that are stories reminding me that they are still there. And right now I don’t have nearly enough time, and I want to sit and write, and I have other obligations and timeframes I need to work with in the next few weeks. And then I can write. I can write all I want. But I’m going to do some of it now, even if I can’t sit down for the hours I would like.
I am finally feeling the ending of Ordinary Girl. That may be because I know what story I want to write this November for NaNoWriMo. Maybe having that is letting the other stories stir again. Whatever the cause, the end of Ordinary Girl is ready to be written. It is just waiting for me, and I am going to sneak some time with it in the middle of other things I am supposed to be doing.
A little secret: On Friday I have the day off for no real reason. I told my boss I had a reason—something about working in the house because she understands that sort of thing. But there’s not really a reason for the day off, at least not one that she would understand. Yesterday, my daily Note from the Universe said something about taking time off as if I already had the lifestyle I want. And the p.s. said something about how all the things in the note were important but especially taking time off. And then it said, “How about Friday?” And I said, “Yeah, how about Friday?” And so Friday and I, we have a date for sleeping in, piling the bed high with pillows and books and notebooks and the cat, and just writing and making things and not doing anything else.
Is it Friday yet?