At the end of October I promised to post even more random and strange things since I would be up to my eyebrows in words for my self-imposed NaNoWriMo deadline. I currently have 33,000 words of the 50,000 required and I don't hate the story. This is good.
Anyhoo, an internet writing group/loop posed the following question: How do you explain your compulsion to write to non-writing friends and family?
I drool and act edgy until my husband suggests I put in a little writing time.
No. I use the hunting analogy.
My husband is an avid deer hunter. When the season rolls around, he starts rack shopping, even if the freezer's full. One year we drove by a perfect Christmas card scene. Huge puffy snowflakes swirled in the air and danced in front of a brilliant moon. Trees glistened with icy glitter and a massive buck stood in the midst of it all. I was awed into silence.
My husband expelled a breath, and then said. "I wish I had my gun."
I need to write like he is driven to clomp through icy streams, sit in trees in negative temperatures, and shoot Bambi.
Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.