Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Writing through the Mud


Anybody who knows me, knows I'm obsessed with my beautiful four-legged beast. He--Reilly, is named after my mentor, Patricia Reilly Giff. Reilly is, at times, my one and only empty nester's high maintenance kid. 

But Reilly is so much more than that to the writer in me. Yes, I do have to work around his needs. He gets his food in the AM before I get my coffee. He goes out, and then rushes back in for a cookie (his vitamin), settling into my lap for a snuggle after that. But once I push him off my lap? He knows the routine. I write and write, grab a second cup of coffee and write some more. I'm serious about the words I put on the page. 

But lately, I've been looking more closely at him. I, of course, always have a dog in my stories. Life just wouldn't be the same. I study that face of his, so serious at times, with that furrowed brow and those eyes lazored on me. He even has a pout that works to his greatest advantage if he thinks I've stayed with the writing too long. He rests his head in between his paws and stares me down, longing, wishing, pleading, and sometimes whimpering for his walk at the farm. 

I tell myself--a writer has to ignore outside distractions. I take a long sip on my cold coffee, and get back to my work. But then, as always, the mud comes. It does. I run out of steam...or a question comes up that I don't have the answer to yet. This morning, I started wondering...am I on a path, is there a path at all, or is this quick sand I'm sinking deeper and deeper into? 

Writing is like driving a car without your hands on the wheel. The car has a mind of its own, and the mud is all around. It's been a while since I've written anything outside my middle grade fiction work. I've tried hard not to stare at twitter and Facebook and blogging has been set aside for the somewhat not-so serious, serious stuff. But today, I got to thinking...I was reading a Cynthia Rylant short story, Spaghetti with the kids at school. And I could not help noticing all the little paths in this piece...the things one might think at first sight were headed into the mud. But then she lifts you up and reveals them to be the little jewels along the path to great story. 

Oh, I so wish I could be her!


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