Why am I a writer?

Why am I a writer? Why do I write? Ask me this, and chances are I'll flounder. So I should probably think of something now.

There many reasons, I'm sure, ranging  from the overused standard "because I can't not write" to complex and in depth piles of dirt which I don't feel like digging up right now.

So instead, let's look into past dreams, before this one came into being. When I was very young, I went through what I now think of as very normal stages of things I wanted to become: marine, CIA operative, cowboy, knight, hobbit, Robin Hood-wizard-time traveler... The list goes on. Obviously I couldn't be all of those things. Heck, just being more than one would be very difficult. And seeing as, at seven, my acting chops weren't very developed, the only thing for me was to start writing.

Really though, that's not it at all.  No, I write because I enjoy it. Do I need anymore reason than that? Do any of us need more reason? 

God has blessed me with the triple joys of movement, writing, and baking. Between the three of them, I'm pretty sure I don't have much sanity left, but I do have fun. I'm not saying it's all rainbows and ponies, but what is the darkness except something for light to shine in.

Search for your talents, and when you find them, hold fast.

Have a very blessed day, and don't forget to have fun,

M. S.

Let it rain

It stormed last night and, as always, it brought excitement with it.

There is a standing tradition in my house that, when it rains, people go outside. Now, I'm not talking about sitting on the porch like sane people (why would we, any of us, be sane?), no, my siblings and I go where the wind batters us and we can feel the water sliding past our feet.

Sometimes, we put on felt fedoras and trenchcoats, we walk and talk like we think it's the '40s and Chandler wrote us. Other times, we race outside at the first crash of thunder, not bothering with silly things such as coats or shoes. We run and howl with the wind, finding within the storm a kindred spirit... Actually I think it's just me that does that last—the bare feet thing, I mean.

I don't know what it is about storms, but I love them, I love being in them. Perhaps it's their wild, rampant energy. Perhaps they make me feel more alive... I don't really know, and maybe if I did I wouldn't be drawn to them so much (unlikely).

There's just something about being in the wet, where I can feel the thunder—when I'm there, I don't feel fear. Storms, it seems, are made for me, and I thank God for every one. Lightning might strike me one day, but the thought doesn't bother me. It hasn't turned on me yet. 

What about you, unidentified reader, how do you feel about storms? Do you think about them as blessings, or do you see them as inconveniences? Are they things to marvel at from safety, or things to experience firsthand, close up, from within?

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M.S.

Injuries & Incidents

So I hurt my foot recently. Again. To keep a short story short: I'm a bumbling idiot.

Details? Fine. I had a bad encounter with a curb whilst walking to work. Twisted my right foot. Oddly, this is the third injury of this sort I've sustained in the past six months, and they've all been to the same foot. (And I call myself a traceur, hah!)

I'd blame the recent blazer weather (92f?!), but previous injuries happened in Nov and Jan. And I like to blame myself...

Anyway, moving on. I've relapsed, once again suffering slush readers with the products of my crazy imagination. Fingers are crossed, but I'm trying not to expect much. If there's one thing I've learned from rejections, it's the need to push that work(or works) from my mind and move on to the next, so that's what I'll do.

If anyone out there is reading this, and has something of their own making the sub rounds, I wish you luck. And if you're afraid of submitting your own work, lest you be rejected, then don't worry. Everyone gets rejections (except Heinlein, and let's not compare ourselves to him. I don't need to feel inadequate right now.)

Yawn. Wtf, it's four after four. No wonder I'm tired. I'll edit and tag this post tomorrow, when my eyelids aren't trying to drag me to sleep.

Goodnight (or should that be goodmorning?) and God bless,

M. S.

a little romp — with pictures!

A new post! Yes, it has been ages, so let's go ahead and get my customary apologies out of the way. I'm sorry I was absent so long. Three minutes of that time can be written away as "why can't I remember my password?" time, but for the rest I have no excuse. I offer myself up for whatever punishments might be desired. Please, nothing too humiliating.

Now lets move on to the content. I went to my local park today (pictured above), which proved fun and nostalgic both. It was a much needed breath of fresh air—which might sound like a cliche, but I haven't left the house except to go to work in several weeks so sometimes cliches are true. My mind has been preoccupied with stupid things, like my new ipod, which have caused writing block—actual blockage this time, not log jam stuff. I needed a fix.

And what is a better fix than broken trees? How about a random rusted-out shovel?

From the first moment I came across these aged metal remains, I knew there was a story to be had. And I was a bit creeped out. (Come on, aren't you creeped out by shovels in the middle of woods? Haven't you seen any movies?)

But there were no skulls underneath the leaves, no skeletal hands reaching out of the dirt, grasping for one last breath of life. Everything held the air of normality—except the shovel, of course, but it can't speak for itself, so let us move on.

There was also a tree... Well, there were many trees, obviously, but this tree was special. It had boards nailed into it for some unknown reason, and it was the only one like it. (Okay, so I'm exaggerating. Obviously I didn't check every tree. What do you take me for? I don't have that much time on my hands. Not quite, anyway)

Here's a pic:

And a view from the topish:

You can see the CC! Nothing spectacular, I know, but can you imagine how much fun this was for my imagination? I'm calling it the Watcher Tree. Also, the descent was a bit tricky. If there hadn't been a fifteen ft (est.) drop to mushy uneven ground, I would've jumped. But as it was...

Oh, and there was also a hollow! (Is hollow the right word? I can't remember. If someone could tell me, I'd be obliged.) Every time I see something like this, I want to crawl inside. But there was a goblin down there, and I decided it would be best to leave him in peace.

And this was pretty much my entire day. You might not be able to tell it from the pictures, but it was very exciting. I ran about in the woods, listened to my own echoing laughter, and pretended I was fay. I also crept along a creek bed, pretending I was eluding some warlord and his men. I don't remember his name, but he was your standard prince-john-tyrant type, so perhaps he doesn't deserve to be remembered.

 What about you, how was your day? I'd love to hear about it. No, really, I would. Stories make me happy.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,

M. S.