Rainy Night Writing

I often wonder if I would still have cherished writing so much if not for nights such as these: the rain in the eaves and gurgling in the gutters. Would I have snuggled up in the window-seat, layered in blankets with a steaming mug of cider, prepared with a splendid book, listening to the pattering percussion of nature - would stories have enamored me so?

 We're getting tired of this writing marathon, I think. I'm struggling more and more to come up with cohesive sections, pieces of the story that reveal just enough, but not too much, of the unraveling mystery. When I was a child, I did not enjoy television as much as everyone else seemed to. However, when my mother turned on Perry Mason, or Matlock, or Diagnosis: Murder, or any number of the murder-dramas that she enjoyed, I often plopped myself down and enjoyed the show. I craved mystery and diagnosis, problem and solution, hypothesis and conclusion. It contained everything I loved: a fairy-tale simplicity of good vs. evil, with good eventually outwitting evil, and tripping him/her up in the deceit; the tension of hurt and hero; justice; and the chance to match my wits with that of the investigator (I always really liked that part - in Scooby Doo, it was always the first person you saw, and not the grumpy, angry person. That person was usually just a grumpy, angry person)

Unfortunately, I have not READ much mystery. I've read some thriller, all the boxcar children (I loved Benny - mostly for his name), and not much more. Not an impressive mystery resume, huh? On top of that, I decided on a whim to write a mystery less than two weeks before NaNo began, and to do so in concert with Matthew. All this is a silly disclaimer for the fact that my writing has deteriorated greatly this past week, everywhere. My journaling looks like a tiny, heart monitor of bumps down the lines of the page; my blog blather is aimless and blubbering, and my story has a very confused inspector, who probably should know more than he knows, with only a few days left before the mystery has to be solved.

I think I'm ready for December, though. For reading, and more casual writing and blogging, and for more time for whatever. 

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

~ Sylvia Plath

A little encouragement from Sylvia Plath. 

I think if Sylvia Plath was still alive, I would follow her around crying piteously until she taught me to write. 

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.

~ Sylvia Plath

So very much to learn,  yes. If I keep reading Sylvia Plath too long, I may get morose, cynical, or dark of humor.

In the summer, flowers are commonplace, beautiful as a natural gift of the season. In the winter, it's the solitary blossom, a snowdrop peeping its head out of the snow, the camellias, pink and bright even without sunlight, the tiny trumpets of winter paper bush and the vibrant reds of holly berries. Snowdrop, my favorite flowers, like the joyful tears of winter springing up from the ground.