Why do you do those things you do.....

Writers are strange creatures... we know this, we are this, we don't mind this---- I actually think writers have the only socially acceptable form of mental disorder. I mean, who else can get away with having multiple personalities and murderous intent.... if the FBI ever researched our browser histories, we'd all be on the watch list (though, who's to say we aren't already).

And, because we are such strange creatures, there are a few traits, er... habits, some of us have picked up along the way. Even famous writers still cling to rituals that run the gamut from the eyebrow-quirking unusual to the absolutely bizarre.

Like Capote, who only wrote while lying down and smoking/drinking. Or, Nabokov, who wrote his novels on small index cards that he kept paper-clipped together. Then there's Cheever who purportedly wrote in his underwear. And, lastly, there's Eliot, who would, occasionally, only respond to "Captain" while sitting with his face tinted green, looking for all intents and purposes, like a cadaver.

I'll admit, I don't have any habits as weird or as eccentric as some of these writers, but, perhaps I should? If hopping around, clucking like a chicken while I churn out prose could get me published, I'd cluck all day, everyday.

No, nothing remotely that strange here.

I'm a midnight writer, having written some of my best pieces at 2 am. I suffer from chronic insomnia (a trait inherited and conditioned) but, over the years, I've come to relish my sleepless nights... at least, if they're productive sleepless nights.

Apparently I need quiet, when I'm working--- no, that isn't quite right--- I need solitude. And, it's more than just closing the door to my cave, er... office. In the wee hours of the night, the world is asleep--- there's no threat of phone calls, no unexpected knocking at the door, the neighbors and husband are silent and out of sight--- the world has shut down and I am ALONE. There's nothing. There's no one. Just me and my strange head-characters. I even step outside sometimes, just to take in a deep breath of solitude and marvel at how beautiful the world can be when it shuts its mouth. This is the time, at least for me, when I invoke my muse--- for Humphrey is photo-sensitive and camera-shy. He doesn't like blinding lights or obnoxious noises, they give him a migraine and make him cranky.

So, spill, what's your deepest, darkest writing ritual/secret? What gets your juices flowing and your muse cooperating?

Whether you prefer writing in longhand with a red pencil or feel compelled to recite Homer's Invocation of the Muses before you begin---whatever your habit---let it be the reason you begin, and so in beginning, let it be the reason you finish. Because, isn't that the whole reason for the writing and the ritual in the first place? The finishing?

"Make the tale live for us

in all its many bearings,

O, muse."

A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered

Remember and Return.....

I've settled my heart in the memory of your sigh, the subtle caress of your lips. I've eased my mind's worry in the warmth of your smile, the soft embrace of your kiss. But, the time of our parting has been of a length, that I scarce can recall your words' sound. And, I fear in the depths of this consuming absence, your passions withheld, your spirit's now bound. I have not the strength to fight such a foe, as wild and untamed as the sea. I have not the will to stand at your door, and demand your decision to be, As one or the other, the sea or my love, I know I would fail to win thee. My only request, when you've ventured enough, Remember! And, return unto me.

A-Z Reflections, year 4....

A-Z blogging challenge for 2014 has come and gone, seemingly without my realizing it. And, though I fell behind once or twice toward the end, I finished this year's challenge right on time. Really, I can't believe it's already over. I feel like I just finished my post for letter A... Year 4, for this blogger, was a far cry from the tortured state of despondency that was most of Year 3 -- I'll not mention the irony of this year's focus on death being easier to blog about than last year's foray into supernatural creatures, we'll leave that for my therapy sessions *ahem* As always, A-Z brought with it, not only 26 days of unbridled and far-reaching knowledge (disguised as entertaining and thought-provoking blog-posts), but a chance to connect with new faces while reconnecting with familiar faces--who had perhaps drifted away--from A-Z's past. I am always amazed by the ingenuity and inspiration that comes from lumping a couple thousand folk

From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

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