Sometimes we have happy hour,
and sometimes (apparently at 9pm especially) we have sad hour.
We all have to work, in some capacity, to feed ourselves
but I’m reminded by my son that every once in a while we just have to stop
and smell the flowers.
(Preferably the ones without bees.)
The words buzz around in my head. I see an object, or I glimpse an expression on a face and I feel like I could base an entire novel on that very subject. The words – I can see them – twitching out from my fingertips on to the blank page. I imagine them there before I type them, and then my muscles obey, my digits stretching to reach this key, that letter. Suddenly, there they are. Right there before my eyes where I can read them. Do they make sense? Are they in the right order?
I inspect them. I skim them: sometimes I read them out loud. They are never good enough the first time around.
Inspiration is like having a balloon inside my head. It grows, it expands, until I can no longer contain it – until it either gets out or I go mad. And I do, sometimes. I’m sure my family knows when I get to the point where I MUST write. It’s almost like a disease, like an addiction. I suppose it is, in a way. I ignore my family, my housework, my social life suffers, I do nothing else in my leisure time. I haven’t watched TV in over a year.
And I can’t live without it.
I suppose, as with almost anything, if you do it enough and you’re lucky, you develop at least an aptitude for it. And if you’re really lucky, you find you have a talent for it. In the case of writing, if you have a vocabulary and an adequate imagination, all you need is a knowledge of grammar and you should be good to go. And yet, when I read those who are very talented – those who make it look easy – I realise I have a long road ahead of me still.
So, I write. The compulsion to put into writing the thoughts in my head is undeniable. As long as I have this driving will, this vast, open plain of ideas, and the means to make my hands work the magic that pulls rabbits out of hats in my noggin’, my addiction will be a part of me.
You never know what you’ve got until you lose it. It’s a saying we hear all the time; sometimes in moments of profound loss, sometimes it’s trivial. In my case, in many ways it’s the latter.
There’s no summer camp for my youngest son this week. I used to think it was a luxury to have the time to write. Now, however, my luxuries include sitting for more than two minutes at the table to eat a meal without being interrupted, showering, and going to the washroom.
The latter of these I believe, falls into the profound category.
So if you see a woman walking around the grocery store buying finger foods, with stringy hair and smudges of dirt on her face and with eyes bulging out of her sockets and her legs crossed, try not to point and laugh. It’s probably just a woman who’s missing summer camp.
Day 9 Prompt – Write a Story in 250 words or less about your favourite City
Who invented fruit flies? What are they good for except invading our kitchens and eating our fruit? Would they fill up the belly of a bird? No. And I refuse to let a bird into my kitchen to test the theory. How many tiny fruit fly bodies do I have to pick out of my wine? I get enough protein, thanks.
Every year it’s the same thing. You go into the grocery store and see them swarming around the onions and you think to yourself, the strawberries are far enough away from the onions that they shouldn’t have got into them, right?
Ha!
And so every year my kitchen is either on the wing, or littered with fruit fly traps. The home made ones are the best. A jar with a small piece of banana peel inside and cling wrap over top with a tiny hole. They can get in, but they can’t find their way out.
They are still and always will be a bloody nuisance though!
“Wine is good. Fruit flies are a nuisance.”
Me.
Back when I was five years old, I remember being on vacation with my mother in England. On this particular day that so clearly comes to mind, we were driving to the seaside. My uncle, who was driving, told me that it was a good sign that the cows were standing up in the pastures as we drove by.
“Why?” I asked in a perfectly five year old fashion.
“Because when the cows lay down it means it’s going to rain,” he explained.
Since that time I’ve taken predictive cow thing to the next level – to a degree of percentages. So for instance, if three quarters of the cows in a field are standing up, there is a potential for a 25% chance of rain.
So today I was driving to where my son was at camp. It was out in the middle of nowhere and inevitably I passed a field where there were horses and only one cow. It was bright and sunny, but the cow was laying down.
Shit, it’s going to rain, thought I.
When I passed the same cow on my way home, my windshield wipers going as fast as they could, I nodded to the cow.
So I’m taking this grammar course. It’s necessary for the college certificate I’m aiming to get, in order to put something ‘professional’ on my resume, for me to take this course. I always thought my grammar was pretty good. Yes, I’ve learned a few things, such as the fact that if you’re quoting even the name of something at the end of a sentence, you should put the period inside the quotation marks. The same goes for a comma. That’s fine – I was bound to learn something new.
My problem is this: for my final assignment in this course, I have to write two grammatically correct paragraphs. No problem, right?
Wrong! In fact, SO wrong!
This course is making me question everything I learned in grade 7 English. Who knew there were eleven types of verbs? Now that I’m learning about all these different parts and tenses and exceptions and everything else on top, I’m almost afraid to speak, let alone write! And I have to construct something that’s going to be marked?
I’m a mess!
Advice? Anyone?
It’s been a while since I last had anything to post about on my paper route. Of late my walk around the block has been lacking in anything adventurous… but now I have two things to report!
First, one of my customers has a robin’s nest tucked into the corner of the overhang above his front door where the mailbox is located. Every day I’m dive-bombed by an anxious male robin when I try to deliver the paper. Who knew male robins could be so aggressive? I would never hurt it, but it flies so close to my head that all I would need to do is raise my hand and I could knock the silly thing out of the air.
In other news, they trimmed Nosehair!
Before
After
I’m not sure if Nosehair is pleased with his freshly plucked proboscis… I, on the other hand, am considering a new nickname for my leafy friend. Any suggestions?
lindaghill.com 