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I Blame the Summer

7/28/2017

I've decided that summer is the worst time of year for a writer. Give me a bleak winter's day where I can hide beneath a blanket in fuzzy socks, a hot cup of tea close at hand, and my laptop giving off a warm glow. Summer is often too hot to take the laptop outside, and when you're inside, all you want to do is go out and enjoy the sun. So in short, what I'm trying to say is that Camp NaNo didn't really happen this year. My goals were to write a new short story and revise an old short story. I am about halfway through a new short story, but this summer has been BUSY! Not a good enough excuse, so I'm still going to try to reach at least one of my goals in the next few days (thank goodness July is a long month), but it's not looking good. Kudos to all those writers out there actually getting work done in this wily season.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.

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Summer Whispers

7/7/2017

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The slanted summer sunlight called to her. Come out, come out! I am light, I am warmth! I am flowers lilting in the breeze. I am the buzz and hum and frenzy of the day. So she went out into the world of bright yellow rays. The sun beat down hot and steady and the warm wind tilted the flowers, but did nothing to slake the daystar's burn.

The tall, majestic trees called to her. Come here, come here! We are shade, we are shelter! We are leaves rustling in the breeze. We are the coolness and peace and safety of the forest. So she went forward into the dense thicket and into the world of green. The woods were dim and close and the movement of the leaves was a soft symphony, but the air was moist and mosquitoes pricked her skin.

The wide, deep cave called to her. Come in, come in! I am dry, I am hidden. I am smooth stones beneath your feet. I am the dark and stillness and chill of the earth. So she went down into the secret grotto, drawn to the quiet and a world of black. The chamber was silent and filled with shadows, and the cold stones were soothing on her feet, but the darkness was frightening and she was getting thirsty.

Her frantic mother called to her. Come home, come home! I am lonely, I am worried. I am strong arms to hold you. I am the comfort and soothing and joy of family. So back she went, up from the cavern, there through the forest, into the sun. Her mother was soft and gentle, and dinner and drink were waiting for her dry tongue and empty belly, but the summer whispers still filled her ears.

The high, silver moon called to her. Come away, come away! I am magic, I am night. I am the marriage of the day and the trees and the cave. I am the danger and the excitement and the mystery of a dream.

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I Blame the Summer

Summer Whispers

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