Today feels like the first day of fall, or the closest you can get to it in North Texas in September.
It’ll be here for two days.
The unfamiliar sighs of relief from every resident of the Lone Star state have echoed everywhere. Seems like my home has been plagued by a perpetual drought for the last decade. Seattle, Boston, Providence, New York- thanks for sharing some of your commonplace weather with me. They’re worth dancing for here where I live.
My hubby brought back a white chocolate mocha for me from Starbucks. The only things missing are a wood fire and one of my mom’s quilts.
But instead of curling up with a delicious book , I’m banging my head against my keyboard.
That’s right people… I’m stuck.
I can’t get past a certain scene in the manuscript I’ve free-written without any plotting or sketching. And I can’t get my butt in gear to focus on outlining. Not because I keep getting down-trodden from more rejections (I refuse to admit that). But because my muse has decided to hide behind the rain clouds today.
My son’s down for a nap, so I have at least 1.5hrs of free time. And spending it stuck in limbo is as frustrating as a recovering chocoholic in a Buncha-Crunch factory.
I won’t have time later this weekend, since we have a birthday party to go to later today and a bunch of errands tomorrow (and taking time to go to a writer’s meeting).
I thought the rain was supposed to bring out my muse. Why is it hiding? Or perhaps you’re trying to tell me something much more important. That perhaps I don’t want to hear.
And not just because I live in Texas where there’s a permanent state of drought and lawns look like deserts for 10 months of the year. I’m waiting for the much more precious form of rain: inspiration. The touch of literary angels, letting the storms and floods come to my parched imagination.
I’m revising my second manuscript (half way through it), and these have been the most painful revisions of my life, to date. I can’t see the ending of a new thread I created, and it’s driving me crazy.
In addition, I have ideas for two more separate novels, and I’ve scratched them down with the little bits stuck in my mind like thorns. But once again, inspiration has run dry in my household. Maybe because I’m letting the revisions of this other manuscript drag me down. Very plausible.
Last October and November, the story of my third manuscript literally spilled out of my fingers, like the Hoover Dam overflow. I’m grateful it’s now out to several Beta Readers whom I trust, and know there will be more to revise when it comes back.
But this other story plagues my house (thanks, Shakespeare) like an abandoned yacht in a dried lakebed.
As a Texan, we’re used to droughts. But I pull from the inner part of my soul, born in the tropics, that craves the rain.