Tuesday, after our trip into town for eye doctor and dentist appointments, I wandered through the house collecting Christmas decorations. I don't like to remove all traces because I like to have something special left out for the winter. A few bowls of coloured balls still sit on the table and countertops, a bit of bright sparkle for the darker days. The tree was already downstairs, wrapped in its colourful sheet. In the early spring the winter stuff will be packed back into the bins, and the "regular" treasures will surface again.
The pared down version of decor, along with sunlight flooding into the room, set the stage for a lovely lunch and afternoon with my brother-in-law, Shawn, and his sister, Kenda. My new oven thermometer was put to use - it may have been helpful or it may just have freaked me out when the oven temp shot up to 575F when it was supposed to be at 425F. Luckily I was serving Costco chicken wings and not a delicate souffle. That would have been bad. As it was the wings just caramelized a bit (a fancy way of saying they didn't burn very much). I really have to stand by the stove and monitor it while visions of a new convection oven float through my head.
Today was the first creative writing meeting since before Christmas. We don't have Don leading us but I think we'll be okay, at least until he comes back from his winter south. I don't know what anybody else thought, but I was mighty pleased to get a critique of the first 1/2 chapter from Spike's Adventure. The group pointed out a few places where I need to rewrite, which is just the kind of thing I was hoping to hear. Well, to be honest I was hoping to hear that it should be on New York Times bestseller list. I wasn't shocked to hear it need work though.
Today I feel that I'm pulling words out of my head like they were burrs stuck in Spike's fur. I wonder, why am I doing this?
For some reason, I feel a compulsion to get words down "on paper". I like telling my story in writing as then I have time to find the words and structure my sentences. I'm not good at that in real life. When I'm writing I imagine that we are sitting in the wing chairs by the fireplace with a pretty teapot and delicate cups on the table between us. I'm telling you a story, but like the little girl who plays with her tea set with an imaginary friend, you are silent. I set out a cup of tea for you anyway, hoping that you’ll show up.
Writing is freedom from a medicated mind.
"He captures memories because if he forgets them, it's as though they didn't happen.” ~Donald Miller