750 Words a Day

I started a new quest for writing. It's been my life for so long, being a writer (paid or not I know I am a true writer at heart) but I have found myself at odds the last few years. I've let living life take over my writing. I used to write in the dead of night, when I laughed, when I cried; when I was happy or sad. I would write stories, or starts of them; I would write poetry; pages and pages of it. I have neglected that part of me, though. Too busy - what a terrible word and terrible excuse. I have words to share with the world and they are not getting shared when I am too busy, too tired, just not in the mood. Today I saw this link to a site that intrigued me; 750words.com. It is private, and encourages daily writing, and helps log it, track it with points and badges; you basically compete with yourself. 750 Words came about because the creator read Julia Cameron's The Artist Way. I read that too, and was so intrigued by writing morning pages that I gave that a go for many months. But I have been unable to successfully keep it up. I already get up so early, and although I managed it for awhile, I just tapered off. The idea of morning pages is to purge your thoughts first thing in the morning before you really start your day. With purged thoughts, your creativity can come out easier. It's great and I loved doing it, but I also hated doing it, because it just was not practical for me.

Driving home I am often so inspired by sights, sounds, smells in the air. My mind wanders and I find myself wanting to write it all down. But when I get home a million things wait, and there go my 750 words again. For the last three years I have been on a committee reading and approving kids books fo the state of Florida. After this week my time on the committee is done, and my time will once again be spent doing what I want, reading what I want, and now, hopefully, writing what I want to free my creative soul. I'd get home over the last few months and I would see this huge pile of books waiting to be read and I'd know that I had to do the right thing, writing on my mind or not. So. Here I am signed up for 750words.com and today was my first day. I hope I can continue and finally inspire my own self to make my dreams come true.

Monday March 05, 2018

On the way home tonight I saw two young boys fishing off a bridge. They were pre-teen, scruffy, barefoot, one without a shirt, pants riding low on skinny hips, underwear showing, but not in the hip-hop, gangster style. This was just a casual, don't care about my appearance kind-of clothing. It was around 3 pm; the kids in Plant City today, did not have school, so it was an out-of-school moment for them, I am sure. Next week is spring break; maybe more time for these boys to fish, I hope. The trees are all in bloom - the oaks, grand in their newly budded bright spring cloaks, the air almost shimmering with it. The young boys stirred my heart. I cannot help but consider Steve at that age, probably dressed in a similar fashion. It teases my soul. I don't love Steve with all my heart now, but I did for a long time, and it makes my heart happy to see little boys with their futures stretching out in front of them, as was Steve’s once. They are still too young to see mistakes they might make; still too young to be of much harm to anyone but themselves. Their lives really are shiny and new; regardless of what they might end up as; today, they are young boys fishing off a bridge, enjoying a warm spring afternoon away from school and doing what boys love to do best. They can be a mess, look a mess, get dirty, wet, fishy. It doesn't matter. It's a wonderful way for them to while away the time; innocent, yet grown-up enough to be out of sight of parents. They might have siblings; a lot, just one. They might be from a split home; living with either parent seeing the other on the weekends, or not. Their stories can be played out in any direction, any number of truths possible. For today, they are just two young boys fishing off a bridge on a beautiful, warm, blooming spring afternoon.

Farther down the road I passed a house on the other side of the road. Chipped green paint, wooden frame, azaleas in riotous bloom all around the house in tall bushes. That's the way azalea's should grow and bloom, not trimmed into perfectly round balls, beaten into submission. They are naturally rangy, tall bushes in a variety of colors, although these were a deep fuchsia pink. It was an older house; no telling just how old, but an old frame house, the way houses were when they were built here in Florida until recent years. Now houses in this area tend to be concrete block, fancy stucco, mission style with rounded windows and archways. There is nothing wrong with those type houses; mine is a ranch stucco, but the old houses have such character. Built on concrete blocks, like feet, the air could pass through under the home and keep the house cooler in the summer, although in the winter it does nothing to keep heat in. Most were not insulated, were without central heat and air, and some even without original plumbing. They were fodder for termites, especially with the damp and moist heat we live with so much in Florida. So this house I passed was an old frame house built up on blocks, but also framed in around the bottom with what looked like wooden siding. The window frames were an odd brownish-green color that looked like it wanted to offset the chipping paint, and it really did so successfully. One framed window screen, however was slightly askew. My mind found itself wondering just what set that screen askew. Some teenager sneaking out at night, sliding open the window, lifting the screen, sneaking out into the night, clandestine meetings planned with friends; a boyfriend or girlfriend? Just for the thrill of getting away with it? Entirely possible; the window with the tilted screen faced west; if mom and dad came home from the east each day they would never see it. No yards really need mowing now, so chances are dad won't catch it while mowing. I remember seeing it askew as far back as last week, so who knows the truth of that wonky window?

All we have to do is watch where we travel; when driving, walking, wherever and however we get there. There are stories everywhere. We can imagine each and every detail, we can make them up ourselves; it doesn't matter the truth, really. What does matter is our curiosity, our observations, and the stories our own mind comes up with. I've always known I was a writer because of my inherent curiosity of the world around me. I've always wanted to know the lives lived in tumble-down, abandoned houses, in old barns with their roofs caving in; in the old tractor equipment left to pasture. It peaks my imagination, my curiosity, and it makes my storyteller mind come to life.