Writing Process like a Pot of Soup

In the past few days I've not had my priorities in the right place. I've had time to read spam-y emails, junky newspaper flyers and bird watch. Woodpeckers, robins and blue jays are arguing in my yard right now—a squabble of colour. 

But I’ve not had time to work on the most important stuff. I guess that’s called procrastination. For me right now, my writing is the important stuff. I’m trying to prepare my Amber Stone for submission to my publisher and I don’t want to disappoint them. But I’ve been having some issues with the timeline and so I’ve been struggling and struggle leads to doing everything but, but of course the BUT is big on my mind. 

So while it looks like I’m procrastinating, my backburner is cooking on low and I must go to that pot of words and I must re-taste and add and delete and stir and taste some more. I’ve put in so much time and added so many ingredients. 

Hmm. How did that happen? My manuscript has become a pot of soup. Now that isn’t a bad metaphor for what the writing process is like. And if you ignore the soup for too long it dries out and shrivels up and all you have left is a burned pot. So excuse me, I smell something cooking and I must return to the pot. 

I'll keep my eyes on the birds, though. Woodpeckers, robins and blue jays are welcome to waste my time—anytime.

Snagged in the suburbs

Bolts between raindrops
stag poses in silhouette
snagged in the suburbs

That’s what I saw the other night while walking the dog in between thunder storms. It wasn't just a visual scene. More layered than merely something I saw with my eyes. Beautiful animal pausing on the slight hill in front of Oak Park High.

The new development in our area confuses the deer. Confuses me, too. My head knows that cities grow on land—that my own property might once have had buffalo grazing on it. And yet, I can’t help feeling sad about this change, about concrete replacing wildflowers, about street names replacing birds. A buffalo sculpture welcomes drivers into the new development—a homage to what was. 

The deer that still roam in frightened confusion won’t pause in front of the metal statues of the wild life of the past. They don’t appreciate the irony of iron sculptures. Only we humans can see that the deer of this neighbourhood have been evicted—their land expropriated for us humans. Someday we’ll name a street after them, or maybe build a sculpture. And like the buffalo…we’ll wonder where they all went. To last night’s stag…long may you roam.

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