(First off yes, I did fail to post on Wednesday, and have been absent for a few weeks from the blogging world in general. I could chop it up to “life”, an existential crisis, or the fact that Target was out of my favorite trail mix. What my absence really is about is this: some plans and directions I have had for my life/career/existence, are reaching a turning point and I’ll hopefully soon be embarking on some new adventures. I’ll tell you when I do.)

1.

I like empty parks. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m at the lake again. This is turning into a habit).

Maybe it’s because I’m an introvert and I prefer a crowd of trees over a crowd of people. I’d rather look at the lake when I’m the only one looking at it, or at least only with people I’d like to share the view with. I’d rather be able to wander aimlessly down the path without another soul in sight, besides any chosen traveling companions.

Alone you can hear the trees. Alone you can see their stories written on their skin and lumps where branches used to grow, and the way their roots hug a riverbank or break through a hillside. Alone you can imagine the stories that have happened, that will happen, that might happen there.

There is space to let your mind wander in an empty field and empty paths and empty benches. Emptiness and quietness is a space that you can fill.

2.

I haven’t been reading a lot lately (which I’ve been kicking myself for but whatever), and editing has been going so-so, not because there’s anything wrong with the story, but because my brain has felt like a bunch of ping-pong balls bouncing around.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I say to my manuscript.

I read somewhere once that writing a novel is a lot like marriage. I’ll agree with that to a point. It would mean that characters are children. And just like parent’s mix up their own children’s’ name, I’ll mix up my characters’ names. I’ll even mix them up from different stories. It’s really pretty pathetic.

Another testament to “writing a novel is like marriage” is the frequency of frequenting baby names websites.

So perhaps we should say that writing a novel is a lot like having a baby. Several babies.

A novel will keep you up at night, beg for your undivided attention. Thankfully though novels don’t scream or throw up on you (but if you print them out, your novel might give you a papercut. You’ll then enact revenge by spilling coffee on your manuscript, but that will backfire as the coffee smears your handwritten notes).

Ping-pongs. Yes. That’s all that’s in my brain right now. Ping-pongs.

3.

One last thing (I know I usually do five parts, but as I said, ping-pongs):

Crows are cool.

I’ve been seeing a lot lately, and whether that’s a seasonal thing or a sign of doom and gloom, I don’t really care, because to be honest we’re kind of past the point of “signs of impending doom and gloom” and are actually  in the “doom and gloom.”

But hey at least we got vaccines.

They’re smart, got big brains, like shiny objects, and will remember your face if you have wronged their family in some way. I also just think that they’re pretty.

That’s all. Just a bit of crow appreciation.

6 thoughts on “Saturday Morning Post, Vol. 53

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