honkytonk

I have reached a strange nirvana in this process.

The signs: copy/paste as quickly as you can. Get a response that isn't no and say, "Okay" in your mind, not jump/gape/tell the world. Make comments in the bold/italicized/fade to gray speadsheet. Ponder the philosophical: "Can any man truly know how YA another man is?" (The answer: "NOT YA ENOUGH.")

But I have to remind myself that, hey, I'm doing it. One: I completed a novel. Two: I've revised the heck out of it. Three: I'm putting it out into the universe. (Four: the universe may just accept it.)

Now, if I can just stop having heart palpitations with "Inbox (1)" appears...

(No, really, can I?)

Georgia

Am I asking the right questions?

Being back in this space, even for a few days, throws me back into the endless circle of Where do I go from here? I worry that I'm not good enough at taking chances, not interested enough in any paid task to do it all of the time, regularly, in my designated chair. Not bold enough make new highways permanent.

Am I telling the right stories, or the "right" stories? Is my mind capable of one story to lead them all and in the darkness bind them, or will they always be a little softer, more of a hum than a shout? Will there always be a hitch?

Q is for quintessential

The bones have been scraped clean. Are they muted or do they shine? We'll wait on that verdict.

I keep dreaming in scrolling text from strangers. I need new images, other sources of light.

For now

All of the monsters are tucked into their corners.

Cossacks Are Back in Russia

is the headline of the article that is opened and unread in my browser, much like the ending of The Remains of the Day, a book that I'd hoped to love but find unspeakably slow. I will finish it. I will.

I'd rather pull your gravity to mine. A spice to the hot chocolate, a lift in the arms, a search for treasure and ocean homes and dead dolphins on the sand. All of those things.

the classic

I'm driving to the same place for the same competition as four years ago. Today a constant, nearly invisible haze of snowflakes swirls on the wind and vanishes upon touching the ground. A reminder that four years ago, it snowed and I called you to ask if you'd keep the duty phone for me just a little longer. You know how this island gets when the roads turn slick. You said yes, as you always did, and told me not to rush. I slid my way back.