The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about my NaNoWriMo project. The Clock Countdown stands at 15 days, and I’m just beginning to revel in the early stages of complete panic.

As far as novel ideas go, mine is pretty tame.

Girl falls in love, finds she is more than she thought, discovers a whole new identity, and saves the day.

Fascinating….and pretty boring.

I’ve wondered  for the past two weeks, why it’s taken me so long to get the story out of me, (it’s been an idea sitting in my head for over a year now…) and I’m thinking maybe that’s why.

The story itself just doesn’t excite me.

And if it doesn’t excite me, then what hope do I have in tickling a reader?

I know what you’re going to say. There is time to fix it. I know there is, and I will–and that brings me to the point of my blog topic today.

“The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.”

Somewhere along the timeline of my life, this little nugget branded itself on my heart. For the longest time now, I had no idea it existed within me, or that this was actually something I felt very passionately about. And still, I wonder at exactly what it is that the sentiment means to me–because I can read that two ways…

I’m complicated, I know.

Slowly, it is beginning to emerge as nothing else in my life ever has, and make itself known. And no where is that beginning to be more clear, than in my writing.

I left a friend of mine this evening, with a question hanging in the air. Of course, it was about writing…kinda. The question really had to do with what I would write, if it was possible to make real whatever it was I printed. It’s a heavy thought.

If you could write anything, and have it actually transform before your eyes–what would it be?

There is only one thing I could think of that I’d want. And I have to apologize for dragging you all the way down here and then leaving you hanging by not telling you what it is I’d write. (If you were really paying attention, you already know.) But really–that’s not the point.

The idea is to let your own mind wander and figure out what it all means…to you.

And that, dear reader, is what NaNoWriMo does. I can’t wait to see where the journey leads.

The most important things are the hardest to say, because words diminish them.

It’s been a while… I’ve no excuses really, save one–but it’s a good one; I promise. And no, I’m not telling.

During my silence, I’ve been inspired to tinker with something very close to my heart. It’s a thing that has touched me to the core of my being and pulled out of me that which I never knew existed. Writing does that every now and again. (I recommend it highly if you’re ever stranded while on your journey through life.)

It’s common knowledge that you can’t write what you don’t know.  Frances Hodgson Burnett once said,

I am writing in the garden. To write as one should of a garden one must write not outside it or merely somewhere near it, but in the garden.

I’ve arrived in my own garden of sorts, and what has been unleashed… Well, if it touches you then I’ll know I’m onto something.

You Are Lovely

It happened one day. A plain, ordinary, day. Pools of golden light were not playing across the room. A roaring fire was not crackling in the fireplace. Forget-me-nots did not pass from your lips to my ears.

The day of the week is not important, nor is the exact time of day. In the end, it took three simple words, arranged as an artist layers paint on canvas. By anyone else, they would be meaningless—ordinary and lifeless.

As the notion went from an idea born of desire to a fully realized statement, they tumbled out, spilling themselves onto the floor in front of my feet to await their destiny.

“You are lovely.”

I grasped the inescapable conclusion as I gazed down at them, wondering at the intimacy. You knew how to let yourself into my heart—how to shape those three words into a symphony only I could hear.

They clambered up my legs and etched themselves on my soul.