I’ve been thinking on a plethora of thoughts lately. The heat, however, has weighed me down and I’m not quite interested in following any of them down the road they are leading me. I’ve been reading Madeleine L’Engle slowly this summer, as if every paragraph is a conversation we’re having over coffee.
In the early morning hours, I’ve been writing. While the earth is cooled a bit and the air outside doesn’t threaten to choke me with its intensity. I wake with the early dawn and write outside as long as I can. I have three stories I’m writing right now, my morning mood dictates where I’ll spend my words.
I didn’t set out to do that, have three stories which are becoming books. I actually didn’t think I had another story in me. Really, I never think there is another story in me after I finish writing a book. I type the words “The End’ and lovingly put a title page on my work, do a dedication for a friend or family member who might never see the work and I cradle it for several days, always doting on my finished piece because I fear it’s the last one. I fear that the creativity has been tapped and what I hold in my arms is the very last thing I’ll ever write.
Then an idea comes or boredom or I need to write because I write every day (first thing in the morning as of late) … so I write some ridiculousness down and then it comes, like a never ending tide. The ideas are there and the words and the story line and so I keep writing.
This summer has had a very “festina tarde” feel to it. (That’s Italian for the idea to “make haste slowly”) I think most summers have that feel though. I always set out with grand plans to enjoy the hell out of the long sun filled days, and then it’s the end of July and I’m not quite sure where the time has gone.
I’ve tried to enjoy the summer. I’ve done a bit of swimming, a bit of camping, a bit of outdoor dining with friends, a bit of family reunion-ing and a lot of writing.
As for my random thoughts, which is the stuff the Writing Moose thrives on, they are tired. Or perhaps it’s my psyche that’s tired this summer. Hell even my flowers are tired. Everything seems a bit more battered and worn out from the heat than usual.
So, since heat is the topic of the hour, I scrounged a few sentences here and there from some of my works that had to do with heat. Just for fun.
“The bus methodically wound its way up into the rugged country. Trees grew thick alongside the road. I thought I even saw a few tropical birds and a monkey, but I couldn’t be sure. I was in a surreal state of exhaustion. Mix that with the heat and the lurching motion of the bus as it changed gears and desperately chugged forward, I was lulled into a sleepy, dreamlike state.” – From Thirty,
“The sweat pooled in the dip in my lower back and I absently ran my hand over the spot. My attention wasn’t on the heat that was rising with the early morning sun or the sweat that spotted my forehead; it was on the majestic scene laid out before me. Time stood still and I couldn’t catch my breath as I attempted to take it all in: The Coliseum, the grand symbol of Rome, rested at the end of an ancient road. – From the short story “Four Seasons”
“Jasmine sat at the kitchen table. The back door was open, a breeze wafted in through the screen, making the warped wooden frame creak as it fluttered against the door jamb.
The storm the night before had blown away the weighted summer scents, brushed away the dust and the heat. Replacing it all with sweet smells of wet grass and moss. The earthy scents mingled and drifting into the kitchen, pushing out the heavy summer air that still lingered.
Birds sang their morning song, reveling in the break of the heat and cicadas began to tune their daily chorus.” – from Bayou Summer
“That was exactly what she thought. Or maybe it was what she wanted to see. She didn’t want to see Coca-Cola signs all over the place. She didn’t want to see ads for cell phones and minutes. She didn’t want airports that looked like American Malls, all shiny and glowing with neon. The only thing that made Egypt remotely its own was the heat and the smell of the river, the smell of the life blood of this country lazily creeping through the arid desert where a modern city had sprung up in the place where culture had begun.” – From a book that has not title yet