I want to right my wrongs. I want to fix things. I broke them and now I’m trying to put the pieces back.
The plane ride is smooth. The flight feels effort less. Like the metal body of the plane is weightless. We weren’t traveling in a machine, using power to get from point A to B, we were being carried by the air. I couldn’t help but picture those paper airplanes you make as a child. A white paper plane wafting through the air on a sunny summer afternoon.
I go over everything I want to say. Every apology I need to make. Some I already wrote in the message I sent you, but there’s more, so much more to be said.
The airport is busy. The plane empties and its temporary inhabitants clamor to grab their suitcases from the baggage return. Families, reunited, hug and laugh. People are greeting each other, and group by group leaving together. I sit down. There is no one here I recognize. But I’m sure that there will be soon. I’m sure you’ll come. So I wait.
Coat, hat, gloves – I mentally checked them off as I slid them on. The heat in my car wasn’t working and it was cold outside, a fresh snow coating everything.
My footsteps trailed behind me in the snow like a forgotten friend and for a moment I had the urge to step back into them, follow them back up the steps into the house. But I had to do this. I had to say goodbye. Tomorrow I would be in a different town, with a new house to call home.
The car rumbled to a start, loud enough to alert everyone inside that I was leaving, but no faces appeared in the windows and no one came outside to stop me. So I backed down the driveway into the night.
The cemetery was covered in a hush and fresh unbroken snow. Nothing stirred there except for me as I walked through the graves, my flashlight showing me the way.
I was starting to wonder if I’d forgotten the way when my flashlight revealed the curved top of a familiar gravestone.
Snow had piled on top and around the stone, but the carved letters were still visible.
I dropped to my knees in front of it, my fingers tracing her name.
“I miss you.”
I’m rewriting my novel. Well, trying to rewrite my novel. The truth is, I’m not even sure where to start. I have at least three different versions of the story, a bunch of notes and a few half-written scenes as well. Overwhelmed doesn’t even cover it.
When I started this story I was fourteen years old. That was six, almost seven, years ago! I don’t even remember where the idea for the story came from or what my end goal was. Part of me wonders whether I should just junk the whole thing and move on… But I can’t do that. So much work went into this story! Even though it’s not cohesive and all over the place, I just can’t delete it. Besides, the fourteen year-old me would be very put out.
So slowly, very slowly, I’m reading through all the versions of my novel and am attempting to make an outline. And do you know what I’ve realized? My story has no plot! It’s a novel without a point with a lot of fluff. Well written fluff, but still. I guess plot lines weren’t really high on my list six years ago.
How do you rewrite a novel that doesn’t even have plot or a direction? Because I have no idea.
Help. This project may or may not be the death of me.
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” ― George Eliot
Who else loves autumn? Because I do, I really really do. The days are shorter and the air has that cool crisp smell to it. And the clothes! It’s the season of layers. Boots and scarves and sweaters and sweatshirts with hoods – Fall clothes are the best clothes.
There’s apple picking and pumpkin picking, hay rides and corn mazes. Hot apple cider and pumpkin pie. And you can snuggle on the couch with a blanket and a hot cup of tea without cranking up the AC (I will not give up my hot tea for summer even if it kills me!).
How could anyone not love autumn? It’s the best time of the year.
Have you ever been so immersed in something you that forget about everything else? I mean, you still remember to shower and put on deodorant, eat breakfast and go to work, but you forget other things, the little things. Things like emptying the dishwasher, making your bed, putting gas in your car, plans with friends, hobbies, etc. They’re suddenly not so important.
That’s me right now, all because I bought two new books from Barnes & Noble (A Dance With Dragons, the 5th books in G.R.R. Martins ASOFAI series, and Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler).
I’ve been so excited that I have two shiny new books to read and sniff (I love the smell of a new book, don’t judge!) that I have completely neglected my writing. I haven’t written a thing in days. And my poor car’s gas gauge is on E. And while I love how I can give myself wholly to a book, I think I need to learn how to better exist in the book world and the real world at the same time.
Does anyone else have this problem?
Do your hands
know every inch,
every line of me?
When we lie tangled
trace my skin
thumbs always caressing
nose cheeks chin
lips ears neck
arms hands fingers
ribs bellybutton hips
thighs knees ankles
Do you know them all?
memorized the feel
of me yet?
My smile under your
my breath against
the rise and fall
of my chest
Is every piece
that your hands
have unfailingly retraced
in your mind
the way all of you
is in mine?
I feel safe
locked in the cage
that is your arms
in this form of
The whole of me
belongs to you
For I am a captive
stolen by you
belong to you
Lips meet, embrace and melt as one.
Arms wrapped tight, palms pressed against bare backs.
Legs tangled, bodies fused together
Where does one end and the other begin?