Good morning, lovers
My Dear Old Dad reminded me yesterday that I haven't blogged in awhile, and so, at his anxious, fatherly urging, I have taken some time this morning to reconnect with the blogger side of my writing identity.
A side which, I must admit, I have missed.
I'm not sure what it is, but something about the way I blog is decidedly different from the way I write everything else. It's more translucent, more honest. I feel comfortable in the quiet clarity of allowing myself a space to share whatever comes to mind. There are no rules. No limitations. Just me. Just my mind. Just my heart.
I've been working on Tulips some more this morning, and I'm happy to report that I'm finally having one of those successful writing days. The kind where my progress is substantial, and instead of ultimate frustration, the words are just controlling the flow in a most beautiful and affectionate manner. It's the kind of endeavor that will probably last all day long, and instead of leaving me feeling hollow, dissatisfied and unstable, I will feel fulfilled and proud and overwhelmingly full of love.
I'm in such a glorious mood that I've decided to share a tiny snippet of Tulips with you, here, against my better judgement. I am far too protective over this story, and I am in living fear of having people read any part of it until it's completely finished. However, this isn't logical. I need feedback, and more than feedback, I, shamefully, need praise. I'm especially proud of this fragment, and I just want to share it with you, because you've all been lovely and faithful and patient in listening to me rant about this project for two years now and I've never given you any sort of details about it or anything.
I'm still not going to tell you the story line, I am fearful of someone on this world wide web stealing my child from me, but I don't fear too much the possibility of someone stealing these particular words.
And so: here they are.
"Everything has been covered in frost. There is no life, no vibrancy. There is no laughter, no love, and no peace. I am forced to live in this prison of fresh wounds where every bend and corner is a familiar remembrance. Every familiar remembrance is tied to a happy memory. Every happy memory has turned to sarcophagal dust, and I am plagued by nostalgic allergens aggravating and antagonizing my lungs, crawling beneath my skin, making nests and birthing cockroaches in my brain.
I am filth-ridden. Lowly and alone as the Serpent, I creep from room to room, besmirching the picture frames and old toys with black smudges as I weigh them, heavy in my hands."
There you go, dad. Now you can rest assured that your daughter is going to be the author of horridly depressing, psychosomatic books someday. But at least I will be happy. :) And if I make any money, I'll be sure to remember you and mom and send you to Italy, where you can forget about my awful book and tell people your daughter made her fortune off of a Creme Brulee competition in which she took first place because of her extensive qualifications achieved at culinary school.
Which won't make much of a difference, because Italians could care less about a good Creme Brulee, and I would never be able to make a successful Creme Brulee anyways.
What a funny world we live in.
No, honestly, I'm just kidding about all of that. I know that if I ever do finish this silly project, my parents will do nothing but tell absolutely EVERYONE that their daughter wrote a book. I'll probably have to beg them to stop bragging about it to the neighbors. Although I do love them to death for the pride they take in my writing. It does good things for your kids to be so proud and supportive of their endeavors.
All it does is instill in them a sense of motivation, and determination, and that is a beautiful thing.
So thanks mom and dad. You don't always have to 'get it' in order to nurture it, or encourage it to flourish. I'm thankful for you and I love you guys.
On that note, I really do need to get back to Tulips.
I hope you're all having beautiful, inspirational days.
Love much,
Hannah
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