Just a Bunch o' Big Words!

Sabbatical.  Sequester.  Work vacation.  Seclusion.  Running Away.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe my sojourn to Santa Fe.  Sometimes I think I just wanted to get outta town!  Denver can be cold and snowy in January and I figured why not go somewhere else cold and snowy in January?  A treat for me to be somewhere else and write poetry and prose.  Dabble in some memoir.  A postcard or two along with some handwritten letters.

Delaying.  Procrastinating. Temporizing.  Hedging. Indecision.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe my style of working.  Or trying not to.  Putting off for tomorrow what I just don't feel like doing today.  I thought that coming to Santa Fe would clear the distractors that keep me from focusing.  Denver is a tough place for me to stay on track.  Trails!  Rec Centers, yoga, swimming. Kids and a grandson. So much to take me away from writing.  And reading. Surely new scenery would be inspirational.

Fear.  Consternation.  Discomposure.  Hesitation.  Uneasiness.  Pick one.  They all kind of describe my dysfunctional writers mindset.   Sometimes it is just easier to stay stuck, then venture out.  No harm, no foul.  Paralyzed to the point of inaction.  No typing.  No reading.  No lightning bolts of inspiration.  No amount of coffee or chocolate can break this negative reverie.  My muse is invisible and I'm not in the mood to play hide and seek.

Determination  Resolve.  Willpower.  Stoutheartedness.  Plucky.  Pick one.  They all kind of describe my head space when the motivation comes and the words flow.  This is my happy spot.  Maybe a bit manic.  Pen to paper, aching hands, pressing on. Reviewing, revising, rewriting.  Reading aloud.  Laughing at my typos - auto correct be damned.  Metaphorically ripping the page out of the carriage and crumbling it into the garbage can.  Rolling a crisp new sheet and clanging the keys.

Relief.  Reassurance.  Palliation.  Gratification.  Serenity. Breath.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe how I feel when I finish a piece.  When my lungs can take it more air than I thought possible.  When that first breath of finishing is the sweetest inhale ever.  When I can lean back in my chair, printed page in hand with words neatly in lines and rows looking back at me.

One last thought.  This is my cycle.  This is my brain.  My thinking in rhyme but talking in prose. My purview of the world; my world.  Going outside and breaking into song.  Smiling at everyone I see. A cynic's psyche and a happy heart.  Sarcastic thoughts tempered with a kind tongue.  Skeptical ruminations rendered benign by compassion.  One last thought.

Time to Write,

Jane