My Novels

Wednesday, July 02, 2008


Not that we've had any lately, but this is a random thought I'd not recorded a couple months ago.

One night I couldn't sleep, was tossing and turning, when I heard distant thunder. I got out of bed, walked to my windows and watched the approaching was, quite simply, delicious anticipation.

Yes, I live in a small town but this area has large, spacious lawns, it's quiet at night, and one can still see a vast day or night sky above the backyard trees.

The storm hit, and I stood there watching the rain fall off the roof; it looked like silver diamonds reflected in the dim, yellow streetlight. I immediately thought of writing a beautiful poem, of sharing this wonder and discovery -- the beauty of a dangerous, violent storm.

But I didn't, because, in some sense I've decided (by this age) that frankly, few people care about poetry and even fewer understand it or learn from it. Basically what I've decided about writing in general. Of course, the PR writers keep warping people -- but who cares about deep, insightful literature, poetry or beautiful prose these days?

Being alone is NOT a bad thing; it's something I yearned for all my life. Even though I loved my husband and we had a good life together, and I miss him now, I'd never marry again or share my home with anyone. And no, pets are NOT people; they are a species of their own. Remarkably they demand little more than food, affection and -- attention, though dogs want more attention than cats.

If you think of yourself as a loner, I have a suggestion for you: How much time have you really, honestly ever spent ALONE? As in: alone in a house, in the wilderness, anywhere. And I don't mean alone in your room where there's others somewhere in your house. I could include contact via the realm of the 'net, but I won't.

Writers know this aloneness, the sheer scope of solitude and it's not the enemy.

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