Freddie & Fleur

Ah, time flies when you’re insanely busy and wracked with sinus pressure. Welcome back, Girley.

I received two new surprises yesterday and today. Yesterday, I was given a brand new plant! So nice, wasn’t it? His name is – wait for it – Freddie. Yes, my Freddie is a replacement for my old friend and colleague, Mr. Frederick, the sad-eyed receiver of either no saturation or far too much. And because of the statement I just made, I was given a command by Mama to bring Freddie home immediately to be raised under her watchful eye. So, to stop the likelihood of yet another death by these hands, Freddie is going home.

Today’s surprise was a bouquet of beaUtiful sunflowers. Purple and pink and yellow – just an assortment of prettiness and floral sunshine. Her name is Fleur, which is French for flower. I’ll do my best to keep her alive. My level best.

Oh, fatigue! Why do you come at 3:15?

Ms. Miscellaneous

First things first: I am determined to make it to 100 posts on this little JournaBlog. Not for any rewards, of course, but for personal satisfaction. I started this thing with the intent to write and write away, so I hope to achieve that tiny goal. As far as creative writing…well, the jury is still out on that one.

Interestingly enough, this past weekend, a friend and I were discussing how tragedy and pathos and “issues” fuel the works of most authors, and, really, most artists in general. (Specifically, we talked about Tennessee Williams. Wikipedia him. You shall see. While there, see William Faulkner, Van Gogh, and every other artist/author/playwright/musician you can think of. For real.) In many instances, there needs to be some type of catalyst. Something needs to be going on, I believe, to force the artist to get to work and release the contents of that inner storm.

Nothing is going on with me. Seriously. My brain is filled with a lot–schedules and time and things to get accomplished–but as far something, something, an “issue” that deserves to be wrangled by way of a poem or a story, there’s nothing there. When I was in college, in high school, even in the 4th grade, for pete’s sake, there was always something. Shyness, infatuation, more infatuation, feeling left out, wanting to be accepted, etc. etc. A day didn’t pass by without my hitting up that creative outlet, just to let everything out. Now, in the long, slow days of adulthood, we’re deep in the dry spots.

Of course, the terrific thing about fiction is that I can pretty much write anything–pathos and tragedy are not exactly prerequisites to writing (and no, I’m not asking for tragedy, either. It ain’t fun). However, I think the reason I’m having such a problem getting to work is that there is no inner storm. Nothing poking me in the elbows, requiring that I write and write to get it all out. Being that I largely wrote because of that need to get it all out, I’m kind of at a loss. And for those artists that possess the singular and insatiable desire to simply create–without the presence of pathos and absent of any “issues”–I’m so not there, either. I’m just blah. Sigh. Time for baby steps. Time to start over and figure out how to fix it.

In other news, it’s March. The days will get longer and the air (let’s hope) will get a bit sweeter and lighter. We shall see. I look forward to longer days. There’s something about leaving the office and not feeling like it’s 10 minutes after midnight.