Tuesday, June 12, 2012
He rose from the bed. He walked on bare feet over to the chair and sat. She breathed quietly, unmoved, still, beauty banked and slumbering. He thought nothing. A little yellow light on the desktop computer breathed too, in and out, sleeping. He could hear the silence, a whispering cacophony that never ceased. He stood. The floor outside the room was cold, but he wanted a Scotch. He fumbled for a glass in the disheveled bar, taking a swig from the bottle at the same time. He found a paper cup, decorated with Santa scenes. "Well, he was a jolly old elf". Simon poured carelessly, five fingers, nearly topping the cup. He sipped a bit out to keep from sloshing the drink, then padded back into the room and the chair. She slept still. He could not.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
I decided to take a break between working on projects to think about the writer's life. Some writers spend their days working with others under the stress and tension of immediate deadlines and find their creative juices there. I am too slow a worker and prefer the solitary life. My home office used to look out onto my back yard - a weed-filled garden, victim of my ineffectual efforts (though not so ineffectual if you happen to be a weed!). It is curious though how much the garden reflects moods. If I am depressed, even the sunniest, greenest day looks dark and dead. If happy, the wettest, gloomiest day looks soft and green. I mentioned deadlines. Of course I do have deadlines - except for my novel - but I work best and most furiously when deadlines approach --- as now! I am way past my personal deadline and even farther past any reasonable expectation from my publisher for The Religions of the World project. So today, finally I get back at it.