Seventeen revelations that made today a great learning experience:

( Under here. )

Life is fun!

This is another case of "work makes me think too hard" and so now I'm thinking about writing. So you know. It's all rambly and marginally incoherent (which is what happens when I work too many hours all on top of each other). That's all the warning you get. Read it if you're as interested in the process of writing (and/or life) as I am.

( Feedback revelations? )

No totally lousy day at work is ever a waste. If for no other reason than the drive home, which for me is lovely. And tonight was special enough to share.

For a while now, I've made a little game of counting critters on my drives to and from my job in town. It sort of makes the drive more interesting. (My friends here would LOL - it's mostly a twisty road full of turns and hills, trees and fields and new things to see around every corner - but I drive it twice a day. The road is boring.) Most days, this time of year, I count turtles (got up to five once) and occasionally stop to move one off of the road, if it's trying to cross at a dangerous place. Yesterday's count in was more about turkey vultures - there must have been something dead and yummy in the field down by the river, because there were six there, and more coming in. And the other day's trip home was a count of possums - three, with a raccoon literally high tailing it away from my noisy car.

But tonight was magical. The sun was down, but the light lingered - that very slow sunset that happens here when it's been a hot, hazy day. The sky was blue slate, dark and cloudless, with stars glittering and the moon nearly full. There was a scribble of dark red orange to the right of the car, just over the hill past a field of corn that had grown half a foot today, at least. I was enjoying the view, looking for deer, because so often the last gasp of sunlight is their cue to go looking for a safe shelter for the night. Usually right across the road. But the corn, so nearly blue and waving for all the world like water in the field, had most of my attention. Until, from out of the middle of the blue corn sea flew a pale grey ghost - wide wings spread, little line legs stretched out below. Flight path right over me, and off above the road to my left. I caught the shape, curved line of breastbone and neck doubled back on itself looking so painfully right, feathers pale grey against the darker slate sky, no sound but a sweep of giant wings and the heron was gone, into trees and their shadows. A perfect image of a moment burned into my mind - a magical night, a magical field, a magical bird in flight.

Only a little farther along I was treated to a great black coil in the road. A rat snake, probably six or seven feet long, piled on top of itself, soaking in what was left of the day's heat. Already cooling, it lifted a sluggish head as I carefully went around. And stayed put in my rear view, still enjoying its dusty gravel road heat bath. Such a contrast for the swift disappearance of the heron.

So much simple magic in the world - wonders to see, and always a surprise or two along the way. You want to see them? Go outside, count the number of cicada voices you hear. Or loose yourself in the fantastic shapes of clouds. Or examine the patterns grass makes as it interweaves, growing in the yard. Spiderwebs hold whole stories in their glistening strands - just ask Charlotte. But the most miraculous is life, and it is all around us.

Laurell K. Hamilton's Blood Noir. Just got it on mp3 through Audible. ( (Don't read this, it's just gushy geek stuff. *blush*) )

That's what the post is all about - the explanation for the possibility that no one may hear from me for a bit. Shh. Can't you see I'm reading over here? Be back soon. Promise.

Never tell someone you're a poet. Especially family. At least not when you're feeling vulnerable. "My that's pretty" and "Oh that's nice honey" make me want to scream. To write ugly bad goth dark things from the darkest, dirtiest parts of my warped brain, and stick those in their faces.

Emily Dickens-ish things, only darker.

No, okay, I'm never going to make a living off my poetry - only the rare few do. That's not the point. I'm giving the stuff away, here, after all. Free poetry anyone? Grrr.

Does it really take another poet to understand?

If so, I really need more poets as friends.

*sigh* Not giving up, won't stop writing, not feeling in the least suicidal. Just annoyed at some of the non-supportive people in my life. And myself, for allowing myself to be vulnerable with the wrong people. And maybe for not looking for supportive community sooner.

This is me, trying to remember that getting over a nasty cold takes a positive attitude, lots of liquids and rest and chicken soup. Not mowing the lawn might have been a good idea, too. But the sun was nice.

And then I came in, couldn't get flow going for the piece I wanted to write, and ended up poking around in other people's fic instead. (Not to mention playing in journal styles - look! I found skulls! *big grin*.)

Which brings me to my current musing question - are hanging endings or hooks mean when it comes to fanfic? Especially when you write it like I do, which is sporadically? (Yes, I have already started on the third Notlar story - second's with the wonderful beta now - thus my lack of fingernails to chew.)

I admit this is me having an maudlin and insecure moment due mostly to a nasty cough that's keeping me awake and threatening bronchitis. Maybe even a graceless plea for sympathy. Or it could be the start of another poem - those always warp my perceptions for a bit. Probably nothing I can't cure with a cup of hot tea and some more fic. Or maybe a rewatch of a couple Torchwood eps. Or better yet, going off to see if the poem ever coalesces.(How does that go again - stare at a blank page until....)

Okay, now I have a plan - tea, fic, Torchwood, poetry, more cough syrup....

Darn, it's raining on my day off again. (Yes, that's a giant grin plastered on my face.) So, a couple of hours ago I was outside with my camera, taking all kinds of cool pictures. Because I don't have enough pictures of wet landscape or flowers, yet (oh, yeah, right!).

Then, after taking wet rusty barn wall pictures and recording horrible mp3s of rain on tin, I came in and took keyboard shots. Mind's just all over the place today.

And why am I sharing? 'Cause thunderstorms always fill me with energy of the manic type. Maybe I'll get a few thousand more words in, now. Fresh coffee will certainly help.

Or was that a mistake?